by Samuel Bjork
She arrived at the corner just as Holger’s black Audi drove down Pløensgate. She jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.
“Where are we going?” she panted.
“Disen,” Munch replied briefly. “Disenveien. The call came in ten minutes ago. Andrea Lyng. She wasn’t in her bed when her father woke up.”
Munch put the flashing blue light on the roof and pressed the accelerator.
“He has only just woken up?” She checked the clock on her cell.
“So it would seem,” Munch muttered.
“Who is up there?”
“Kim and Anette. Curry is on his way.”
Munch sounded the horn irritably at a tram and a couple of pedestrians who had failed to get out of his way. “Damn idiots.”
“She disappeared from her home?”
Munch nodded.
“How odd. The other two disappeared from their nursery school.”
“Get out of the goddamn way!”
Munch sounded the horn again, finally managed to extricate himself from the traffic, and headed toward Sinsen.
“So only the father was at home? Where’s the mother?”
“No idea,” Munch muttered.
His phone rang, and he answered the call. His voice was brusque. This was not one of his good days.
“Yes? . . . Damn! . . . Yes, cordon off the area. And send Forensics up there immediately. . . . What? No, I don’t give a crap about that, we have priority. . . . No, of course we’re treating it as a crime scene. We’ll be there in five minutes.”
He ended the call and shook his head.
“Anette?”
“Kim.”
“Found something?”
“Blood.”
“Blood?”
Munch nodded grimly.
“So perhaps it’s not our guy,” Mia suggested. “The MO is completely different.”
“You think so?”
He said this without looking at her. A six-year-old girl had gone missing from her bedroom in Disen. Mia found a lozenge in the pocket of her leather jacket. They could always hope that the two cases were not connected. Three lines on the nail of the left little finger. Please, not again. This time they wouldn’t be too late.
Munch sounded the horn again; he had practically come to a standstill because of a couple of punk rockers who saw no reason to increase their speed as they sauntered through a pedestrian crossing despite the flashing blue lights.
“The girl’s blood?” Mia asked.
“Too early to say. Forensics are on their way.”
“Did you hear the news about Bakken?”
“The eagle tattoo, yes. Roger and Randi? An interesting situation. Was he a transvestite?”
“Sounds like it.”
“That’s not what I need right now. I really don’t need that.”
This remark was not aimed at her. Munch muttered it to himself through gritted teeth as he steered toward Disen. Disenveien itself was made up of small red terraced houses that had woken up to a day out of the ordinary.
“What have we got?” Munch said as soon as they were out of the car.
“Andrea Lyng. Aged six. Missing from her bedroom. Traces of blood all the way from the bottom of the stairs and up to her bedroom. Blood in the bed.”
Kim scratched his head and looked grave.
“Where’s the father?”
“Living room.” Kim pointed. “He’s completely beside himself.”
“Is the doctor here?”
Kim said he was and showed them to the front door. They had just reached the gravel path leading to the house when Anette turned up. She had her cell phone in her hand and was looking anxious.
“We have another one.”
“What?” Munch burst out. “Another missing girl?”
Anette nodded. “The call has just come in. Karoline Mykle. Aged six. Disappeared from her bedroom in Skullerud.”
“Damn,” Munch said.
“Blood?” Mia asked.
Anette nodded once more.
“Okay,” Munch said. “You two go to Skullerud. Kim and I will stay here. Get a team from Forensics to join you.”
“They’re already on their way,” Anette told him.
Munch glanced at Mia. He did not say anything, but she knew what he was thinking.
Two in one day?
Two at the same time?
“We’ll take my car,” Anette said, running ahead of Mia to the red Peugeot parked along the curb.
30
Mikkel Wold, a journalist with Aftenposten, had just had one of his articles uploaded to the Internet, and he was very pleased with the result. Everything was happening so fast these days that he’d barely had time to proofread it before it was published. He had skimmed through the article a few times as it appeared online—no typos, phew, everything looked fine. “Final Farewell to Pauline.” He had covered the funeral the previous day along with two of his colleagues. They’d been responsible for the main feature in the printed version of the paper, while his task had been to find another angle. Reporters working on the printed and the Internet editions of Aftenposten usually worked independently of one another, but not in this case. “Do it all and do it first” was the motto now, and he had noticed that their rivals did exactly the same.
Skøyen Church had been filled to the rafters with mourners. The family had requested that all press remain outside, but not everyone respected their request. Mikkel Wold had watched as several reporters from other newspapers talked their way into the church, mixing with the family, neighbors, and friends. Yes, of course they worked in a competitive industry, but surely there had to be some boundaries. Aftenposten had a good team working on the story. Talented people. Skilled journalists. They had not discussed it, but there was a tacit understanding at the paper to keep it low-key. Not shout fire in a crowded theater. Show consideration. Not prod deep wounds with their dirty, intrusive fingers. Like some of their competitors did.
Mikkel Wold had been offered a job with a rival newspaper some months before. He was approaching forty and had worked for Aftenposten for almost twelve years; the new job sounded exciting, and who knew when he would get another offer? But he was pleased that he’d said no. “Final Farewell to Pauline.” He had interviewed a friend of Pauline’s from nursery school and her parents. Was it borderline good taste? Possibly, but he had decided it was responsible journalism. Relevant. Profound grief following the loss of her friend. They had taken a picture of the little girl crying, holding a bunch of flowers in one hand and a drawing she’d made for Pauline in the other. It was beautiful and moving. Well within press regulations, surely? Or perhaps it wasn’t. Mikkel Wold sighed and stretched his arms. He hadn’t had much sleep since the girls’ bodies had been found. Was he starting to lose his sense of perspective? Would he have written this article ten years ago? Five years ago? He dismissed his moral qualms and went to the kitchen to get himself a cup of coffee. The offices were buzzing. It was a long time since they’d had a story like this—in fact, had they ever seen anything quite like it? A serial killer who dressed up girls like dolls, put backpacks on them and hung them from trees? He shook his head and sipped his coffee. The whole thing seemed surreal. Like a case from the United States or something on their TV perhaps, but not here in Norway. Mikkel Wold had struggled to keep his emotions in check when he saw the crowd of mourners leave the church. The small white coffin. The grim faces. Grieving. Final Farewell to Pauline. He hoped he’d managed to stay within the guidelines. Yes, he had. It was a fine article.
Silje popped her head into the kitchen. “They’re off again.”
“Where are they going this time?” Mikkel put down his cup on the counter and followed the young journalist into the next room. They had started listening to the police radio around the clock in order not to
miss out on anything.
“Skullerud.”
“Another girl?”
“It’s difficult to tell,” Silje said, turning up the volume a fraction.
Grung, their editor, entered the room, ruddy and unshaven as usual. He did not look as if he’d had much sleep recently either. “What have we got?”
“Several units have been dispatched to Skullerud,” Silje said.
“Skullerud? I thought they were going to Disenveien?” Grung asked.
“Both locations,” Silje answered.
“Disen?” Mikkel Wold said. He’d not been aware of that.
“A few minutes ago.” Grung nodded. “Erik and Tove are there now.” He turned to Silje again. “Do we have an address for Skullerud?”
“Welding Olsens Vei. Not far from Skullerud School.”
“I’ll go,” Mikkel said.
“Good,” Grung agreed. “Keep me updated as it unfolds, will you?”
Mikkel Wold ran back to his desk and grabbed his bag. “Do we have a photographer?”
Grung shouted across the room, “I think John is available.”
“No, he has gone to Disen,” Silje said.
“Call Nina,” Mikkel Wold said, heading for the exit. “Tell her to meet me up there.”
He took the elevator down to the ground floor, ran to the taxi stand, and got into one. He took out his cell phone and called Erik Rønning, his fellow reporter who had gone to Disen.
“Erik speaking.”
“What’s happening?”
“They’ve blocked the area off so we can’t get access. It’s chaos. Nobody knows what’s going on.”
“Are we the only ones there?”
“You wish.” His colleague chortled to himself.
“Oh, no, the whole pack has turned up. Mia! Mia!”
Mikkel’s colleague disappeared for a moment. Then he was back on the phone.
“What’s happening?” Wold asked.
“Munch and Krüger have just arrived. Looks like we’re in the right place. Mia! Mia!”
His colleague disappeared once more, this time for good. Mikkel Wold made eye contact with the cabdriver and told him to speed up. He was hoping he’d be one of the first reporters to get to Skullerud, that the other journalists would not have heard the call going out over the police radio. Mikkel tried to phone Erik back, but his call went straight to voice mail. Holger Munch and Mia Krüger had turned up. Something big must have happened.
Mikkel Wold arrived at Welding Olsens Vei only to discover that police had already cordoned off that area as well. He paid the cabdriver, jumped out of the car, and made his way through the small crowd of onlookers that had already assembled. Cordons out so soon? It was happening more and more these days. Even though they listened to the police radio, they were still too late. He had heard several journalists discuss it. Have we lost our touch? Rumor had it that the police were trying out something new, a different means of communication, but so far no one had been able to work out what it was.
Mikkel Wold pushed his way right to the cordon and spotted a reporter from VG.
“What’s going on?”
“Don’t know yet.” The VG journalist lit a cigarette and gestured toward the road. “I think it’s number three or number five. One of the yellow row houses over there. None of the heavyweights has turned up yet, just the foot soldiers. I don’t know what’s happening.”
Mikkel Wold looked about him. New people kept arriving. He could see NRK and TV2. He nodded to a reporter from Dagsavisen just as his cell phone rang.
“Mikkel speaking.”
“It’s Grung. What have we got?”
“Nothing so far, but everyone is here.”
“Why the hell are we always playing catch-up?” Grung snapped.
“It’s a problem, I know. We need to do something about it,” Wold said.
Grung fell silent. The editor did not like being told how to do his job.
“Munch and Krüger have gone to Disen,” Mikkel said, to change the subject. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Grung. He’d seen what happened to people who did, and it was not pleasant. He had no wish to be demoted to covering missing-cat stories in Sandvika.
“Krüger has just left Disen,” Grung told him. “I bet she’s on her way up to Skullerud.”
“Did you get hold of Nina?”
“Yes, she’s coming. I’ve got Erik on the other line. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay,” Mikkel said, hanging up.
He walked back to the cordons and tried to get a handle on the situation. The police had cordoned off the whole street, not just one of the houses. Munch and Krüger were in Disen, and Krüger might be coming up here now. It had to be something major. It had to be several girls. Two at the same time? That would be tomorrow’s front page. He would bet on it. He looked around the street, trying to see if there was a gap he could sneak through. Surely there had to be another way in? He went back to the spot where he’d gotten out of the taxi. Should he stay where he was or try to explore? He was interrupted by his phone ringing again; this time the display showed that the number had been withheld.
“Hello, Mikkel here.”
There was total silence at the other end.
“This is Mikkel Wold, who is this?”
He covered his free ear with his hand in order to hear better. Many people had arrived by now, and the area was filling up with cars and curious passersby.
“It’s not fair, is it?”
A strange voice in his ear. It grated. There was some kind of distortion. He did not recognize the caller.
“Who is this?” he said again.
“It’s not fair, is it?” the voice repeated.
Wold moved farther away from the crowd, crossed the street, and found a quieter location.
“What’s not fair?” he asked.
Again there was silence from the other end.
“Hello?” Wold could feel himself growing irritated. “Hello? Listen, whoever you are, I haven’t got time for this.”
“It’s not fair, is it?” the strange voice said again.
“What’s not fair? Who is this?”
“It’s not fair that you have to stand so far away,” the voice said.
At that moment a red Peugeot arrived. Mikkel caught a glimpse of Mia Krüger and one of her colleagues. The Peugeot drove up to the cordon and was let in by a police officer guarding it.
“Damn,” Mikkel said.
Where was the photographer? He needed pictures of this.
“Listen, find someone else to pester,” he snarled into the phone. “I’m busy.”
He was just about to hit the OFF button when the grating voice came back.
“Number three,” the voice said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s number three,” the voice said again. “Her name is Karoline. Are you still going to hang up?”
With this the caller got Mikkel Wold’s full attention.
“Who are you?”
“Donald Duck. Who do you think I am?” the voice mocked him.
“No, I meant—”
The voice laughed briefly.
“Do you want me to call one of the others? Rønning from Dagbladet? Ruud from VG? One of those?”
“No, no, no . . .” Mikkel Wold said. “I’m right here.”
He retreated even farther from the crowd.
“That’s good,” the voice said.
Mikkel tried to get out his notepad and pen from his pocket.
“Are you going to be my friend?” the grating voice said.
“Perhaps,” Mikkel replied.
“Perhaps?”
“Yes, I would like to . . . to be your friend,” he stuttered. “Who is Karoline?”
“Who do
you think Karoline is?”
“Is she . . . number three?”
“No, Karoline is number four. Andrea was number three. Don’t you pay attention? Haven’t you been to Disenveien?”
Something was happening over by the cordons. Another vehicle was on its way in. Forensics.
“How do I know that—”
“How do you know what?” the voice said.
“I mean . . .”
Mikkel was unable to think of anything else to say. His forehead was hot and his palms were sweaty.
“They’re so cute when they’re asleep, aren’t they?” the voice said.
“Who is?”
“The little ones.”
“How do I know that you’re not just messing with me?”
“Do you want me to send you a finger in the post?”
Mikkel Wold felt a shiver down his spine. He was trying to keep calm, but it was getting harder.
“No, absolutely not,” he stammered.
The voice chuckled to itself again.
“You have to ask the right questions,” the voice said.
“What do you mean?”
“At press conferences, why don’t you ask the right questions?”
“What are the right questions?” Wold said.
“Why did the pig drip all over the floor?” the voice said.
“Why did the . . . ? What did you say?”
Mikkel tried desperately to get out his notepad without dropping his phone.
“Tick-tock,” the grating voice said, and ended the call.
31
Holger Munch peeled off the thin latex gloves and went outside on the terrace to have a cigarette. Christ Almighty, what a start to the day. Two girls in one day? He lit his cigarette and peered into the house through the window. The crime-scene technicians were still at work, and the girl’s father had been driven down to police headquarters in Grønland. They had yet to trace the mother, as the father had been in shock and had made little sense. It would appear that the two of them were no longer together, that they had separated, that it was his week with the daughter, that the mother had gone to a cabin with some female friends where there was no cell coverage. The glass in the French windows to the terrace had been smashed. There were traces of blood on the ground floor, on the stairs, and in the little girl’s bedroom. Andrea. Someone had taken her from her bedroom. Munch took a deep drag of his cigarette and tried to fight off a budding headache. He called Mia. She answered after only a few seconds.
