by Samuel Bjork
You’re all sick. This isn’t reality.
“Some of the girls talked about getting together for a drink beforehand. Are you in?”
“Of course I’m in, sounds like fun. Do you want me to bring anything?”
“Talk to Birgitte, she’s organizing it.”
“Right, I will.”
“Can’t wait!”
“Neither can I.”
“Have a good shift, Malin.”
“Thanks. Drive safely. Say hi to your husband.”
“Thank you, I will.”
The woman with one blue and one brown eye poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down, and pretended to read the newspaper.
35
Mia was standing outside the hotel, already regretting having agreed to go with Munch to Høvikveien Nursing Home. Talk to his mother—surely Munch could handle that on his own? For a moment Mia fantasized about being back on her island. The sunrise and the sea. She needed more sleep. She had stayed up far too late, had far too much to drink. She felt childishly sick and remorseful. Had she drunk-dialed Holger? A nagging feeling at the back of her head told her that she had decided that she absolutely must tell him what she’d discovered, that it could not wait.
Holger Munch looked grim, but Mia didn’t have the energy to ask.
“You need to get yourself another cell phone,” Munch said.
“Why?” Mia asked.
“You called me last night.”
“Damn, I thought I might have.”
“Drunk?”
“I bumped into an old friend from Åsgårdstrand.”
“I understand,” Munch said. “You know that all our calls are being monitored, don’t you?”
Mia made no reply. She tried to recall what she’d said, but it refused to come back to her. Never mind.
“So what did you find out?” Munch wanted to know.
“Roger Bakken had a female friend. Someone he spent a lot of time with when he was Randi.”
“Anyone we know?”
Mia shook her head. “No, but I believe her eyes are different colors.”
“What do you mean?” asked Munch, intrigued. “Is that possible?”
“Yes, one blue and one brown. I believe it’s a genetic quirk.”
“How is that useful?”
“We have to explore everything, don’t you think?”
“Yes, true.”
Munch opened the window and lit a cigarette. Mia hated people smoking in the car, especially in the state she was in today, but she didn’t say anything. Munch seemed exhausted. Introverted.
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” Mia said. “Gabriel managed to retrieve a number from Bakken’s cell.”
“Yes, I heard.” Munch nodded. “Veronica Bache. Died in 2010.”
“Have you found out anything more about her?”
“Not very much. Last known address was in Vika, lived with her great-grandson, a Benjamin Bache, he’s an actor. Do you know who that is?”
“No.”
“National Theater. Hello! magazine. A celeb, as they say.”
“Someone has been using her cell phone for two years. Paid every bill so that the contract was never terminated. That must be what happened, am I right?” Mia said.
“Yes, that’s the only way,” Munch agreed.
“So what do you think? The great-grandson with access to the bills? The actor?”
“It’s a possibility, certainly. I tried to get hold of him today, but he was going to some kind of rehearsal. We’ll need to talk to him at the earliest opportunity. I think I’m onto something. Maybe.”
“What?” Munch turned off Drammensveien and onto Høvikveien.
“You know all the symbolism?” Mia continued.
“Yes?”
“Wouldn’t you say that it’s a bit obvious?”
“Possibly,” Munch said. “That’s your area of expertise.”
“No, seriously, Holger, I mean it.”
“Yes, I understand, only I can’t follow all the twists and turns of your brain. It makes me dizzy.”
He muttered this as he parked outside Høvikveien Nursing Home.
“Here we go.” He sighed, turning off the ignition.
Mia was convinced that if he’d been a Christian, he would have made the sign of the cross. It was clear that Holger Munch was dreading this conversation.
“It’ll be fine,” Mia said. “Just relax.”
“I need one more cigarette,” Munch said, and he got out of the car.
Mia followed him and took off her sunglasses. She was starting to feel slightly better. And being here in Høvik was fine. She was glad she’d come with him after all.
“Go on, try me,” Munch said, and lit a cigarette.
“Now?”
“Yes, why not? Make me see inside your head.”
“Okay,” Mia said, sitting down on the hood of the car. “What was the first sign he left us?”
“I thought we were looking for a woman?”
“Never mind that now, what was the first clue?”
Munch shrugged his shoulders. “The dresses?”
“No.”
“The backpacks?”
“No.”
“Mark 10:14, ‘Suffer the little children’?”
“No.”
“Go on, then, enlighten me.” Munch sighed and took another drag of his cigarette.
“Toni J. W. Smith,” Mia said.
“And why is that the first clue?”
“Because it doesn’t quite fit. Everything else fits, doesn’t it? It’s a part of the bigger picture, but it’s not what we need to look at. We need to look beyond it.”
“Ah?” Munch said, clearly intrigued now.
“So the first clue that didn’t fit?”
“The name on the book?”
“Exactly. A clear sign, wouldn’t you say?”
“A sign of what?”
“Of intent, Holger. Come on, try again.”
“Intent?”
“Oh, I give up.” Mia heaved a sigh.
Holger took another long drag of his cigarette and blew smoke at the spring sun.
“Okay, intent,” he said. “All the other symbols are fake. Washing the girls. The dresses. The school items. Toni J. W. Smith was invented by someone with an agenda? By someone with a plan?”
“Good, Holger.” Mia clapped her hands somewhat ironically.
“Yes, yes, I haven’t lost it completely.”
“And what does Toni J. W. Smith mean?”
“Hønefoss.”
“Precisely. And what about the other symbols?”
“The pig’s blood?”
“No, that was the third.”
“What was the second?”
“Do you remember Roger Bakken’s three text messages?”
“Yes?”
“Which one of them did not fit?”
“Did any of them fit?”
“Yes, of course, try again, Holger. ‘Icarus flew too near the sun.’ Eagle wings. ‘Bye, bye, birdie,’ a gay musical. Roger Bakken was a gay man with a bird tattoo. Everything fits, but not ‘Who’s there?’ It’s the odd one out.”
“That was clue number two? ‘Who’s there?’”
Mia nodded.
“And what does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I discovered yesterday that it’s the opening line of Hamlet.”
Munch lit another cigarette and glanced nervously toward the entrance. Mia was sorely tempted to laugh. A grown man, the head of a special unit, and yet he was frightened to confront his own mother.
“And Hamlet is about to open at the National Theater? Veronica Bache’s cell phone? Her great-grandson? Is that where we should be lookin
g?”
“Not sure,” Mia said, and she thought about it. “I’ve worked out what we should be looking for, but not why. That’s as far as I’ve got.”
“And the pig’s blood was number three?”
Mia nodded.
“And that means what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
• • •
There could be little doubt that Høvikveien Nursing Home was a facility for the more affluent. A typical West Oslo place, Mia thought as they walked through the doors and into the light, airy reception area. The place was spotless. Clean and pleasant, with new furniture, modern light fixtures, original prints on the walls. Mia recognized several of the artists. Her mother, Eva, had been very interested in art and had taken the girls to a wide range of exhibitions whenever the opportunity arose.
There were photographs of different activities on the walls. A display cabinet filled with trophies. Trips around Norway and abroad. Bridge tournaments. Bowling. Even though it was the last stop on life’s journey, there was nothing here to suggest it. At Høvikveien Nursing Home, life was not over until you had swum in the Dead Sea or won a prize for growing pumpkins.
“Wish me luck.” Holger sighed as he disappeared down one of the corridors.
To a private room, Mia guessed. With an en suite bathroom, a television, a radio, and round-the-clock service. She was about to pick up a magazine when she noticed a certificate on the wall. HØVIKVEIEN NURSING HOME 2009 CANASTA CHRISTMAS TOURNAMENT. WINNER: VERONICA BACHE. Mia got up to have a closer look. Yes indeed, it did say Veronica Bache. It had to be the same woman. She went over to the glass counter and rang a small bell. A few seconds later, one of the employees appeared from a back office.
“Hi, can I help you?”
The woman matched the rest of the nursing home. Gentle, pretty, with glowing cheeks. Perhaps they only hired people who matched the interior design, Mia mused. No worn-out staff clustered behind the kitchen puffing on hand-rolled cigarettes here. The woman was about Mia’s age. Good posture and attractive, with bright blue eyes and her black hair in a swishy ponytail.
“My name is Mia Krüger,” Mia said. She considered producing her ID card but decided against it.
“I’m Malin. And who are you here to see?” the gentle girl asked.
“I’m here with a friend, Holger Munch. He’s visiting his mother.”
“Hildur, yes.” The girl with the blue eyes smiled. “Great lady.”
“Absolutely,” Mia agreed. “I couldn’t help noticing that Hildur’s acquaintance Veronica won the canasta tournament. It says so on one of the certificates over there.”
“That’s right,” the girl confirmed. “We have a tournament every Christmas. I think Veronica won the last three before she passed.”
“I’ve never played canasta,” Mia said.
“Me either,” the soft-spoken girl said with a laugh. “But the old people seem to enjoy it.”
“That’s the most important thing,” Mia said. “Listen, something has occurred to me, and pardon me for asking, because you might not be allowed to tell me, but was Bache related to that good-looking actor by any chance?”
“Benjamin Bache?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
The girl with the blue eyes looked at her for a moment. “Hmm, I’m not supposed to say anything,” she said.
“I understand,” Mia said. “Did he used to visit often? Did you see him? Is he just as handsome in real life?”
The woman with the ponytail relented. “He didn’t come here that often, only a few times a year. And just between us, he’s better looking on TV.”
“I see.”
The woman with the blue eyes disappeared into the back office. There was a small television in one corner. Mia looked for the remote control and found it next to the screen.
They had scheduled a press conference for today at twelve noon. Mia Krüger shook her head and turned up the volume another notch. Two anchormen in the studio, a reporter in front of the stairs at Grønland. The press conference would appear to have been postponed. Mia turned off the TV, went outside, and dialed Gabriel’s number.
“Hi.”
“Why has it been postponed? Has anything happened?”
“No, we’re about to begin.”
“Will Anette be taking it today?”
“Yes, I think so, along with the public prosecutor. The one with the short hair.”
“Hilde.”
“Might be.”
“Did you discover anything else about Veronica Bache?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“No, but I’ve stumbled across something,” Mia continued. “Please, would you check it out for me?”
Gabriel sighed. “Of course. What is it?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, only it’s a lot to get your head around. And besides . . .”
“And besides what?”
“No, it’s nothing. My girlfriend is pregnant.”
“Is she? Congratulations.”
“Er, thank you. . . . What did you want me to look up for you?”
“I’m not quite sure, it’s just a hunch I have. I would like access to Høvikveien Nursing Home’s . . . now what do you call it . . . ?”
“Waiting list? Are you thinking of moving in?”
Mia laughed. “Good God, it didn’t take you long to settle in!”
“Sorry,” Gabriel said. “I’m having a bit of a crap day.”
“Well, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault that your girlfriend is pregnant,” Mia teased him. “You only have yourself to blame for that.”
“Yes, I guess so. Is it normal to want things in the middle of the night?”
“What things?”
“Soft-serve ice cream.”
“I’ve heard it said that pregnant women get bizarre cravings,” Mia said.
“Have you any idea just how difficult it is to find soft-serve ice cream in the middle of the night?”
Mia laughed.
“That’s right, ha-freakin’-ha,” Gabriel said.
“A list of staff. And guests.”
“Guests?”
“Or what you call people who live in a nursing home. Inmates? Residents?”
“I know what you mean. I think we refer to them as staff and clients.”
“Great, can you get it for me?”
“Legally?”
“No.”
“If I get into trouble for this, I expect you to cover my back.”
“You’ve been taking that class with Hat Trick, I can tell.”
“Yes, indeed I have.” Gabriel sighed once again.
“Of course I’ll take responsibility,” Mia said. “Høvikveien Nursing Home. Do you need the address?”
“No, I can find it. Am I looking for anything in particular?”
“No idea. Like I said, it’s just a hunch. Munch’s mother and Veronica Bache lived at the same nursing home. I mean, it’s worth checking out.”
“Munch’s mother?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Damn, am I going to have to lie to Munch now?” Gabriel said. “I don’t suppose he’s supposed to know anything about this.”
“Good boy,” Mia said. “I’ve got to run. When is our next full briefing?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Good, talk to you later.”
Mia ended the call just as Munch appeared on the steps. She was about to join him but stopped when she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A female caregiver in the same white uniform as the girl with the blue eyes was standing next to him. Pretty and slim with long, wavy, strawberry-blond hair. She laughed out loud and touched Munch, who, for his part, acted like a teenager, with his cheeks flushed and his hands stuffed into his trouser po
ckets.
“How did it go?” Mia asked when Munch came down to the car.
“Don’t ask,” he said, and lit a cigarette.
“Who was she?”
“Who?” Munch said.
“Who do you think?”
He got into the car without putting out his cigarette. “Oh, her. That’s . . . I think she’s named Karen. She looks after my mother. I just had to . . .”
He started the car and pulled out on Høvikveien.
“Yes? You just had to do what?”
“Any news?” he said, changing the subject.
“The press conference is on now.”
Munch turned on the radio. Mia heard Anette’s voice. No news, we’re still looking. We would welcome any information. They had nothing new to announce. Even so, the world demanded a press conference.
Mia glanced at Munch, who was still lost in a world of his own. She wondered if she should tell him that Veronica Bache had shared a nursing home with his mother, but she decided to let it lie for now. Gabriel was on the case, and Munch looked as if he had enough on his plate.
“You have to see a psychologist,” Munch said out of the blue when they were back on Drammensveien.
“What do you mean?”
He took a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “You have to see a psychologist.”
“Says who?”
“Mikkelson.”
“Screw that.”
“Don’t look at me. They heard your call last night. They don’t think you’re all there.”
“Well, they can forget about that,” Mia snarled.
“That’s exactly what I told them.”
“Then we agree.”
She opened the glove compartment and tossed the business card in without looking at it. “Damn nerve.”
“What did you expect?”
“How about a bit of respect?”
“Good luck with that.” Munch sighed. “Why don’t we stop for a burger on the way back?”
“Fine by me,” Mia said.
He found an exit and pulled up at a gas station, just as it started to rain.
36
The rain was dripping down outside the windows of Aftenposten’s editorial offices. The staff had gathered in Grung’s office to watch the press conference, which was scheduled for twelve noon but had been postponed for ten minutes. Present were Mikkel Wold, Silje Olsen, Erik Rønning, and Grung, their editor, and although Mikkel did not like to think of it in such terms, for once he’d been given the VIP seat, a leather chair next to Grung. There’d been a shift since that phone call at Skullerud. He had moved up the ranks. Suddenly he was at the center of events. Grung turned down the TV volume and opened the meeting.
