by Samuel Bjork
“Why isn’t Daddy here?”
Miriam didn’t quite know what to say. For security reasons Johannes didn’t know where they were. If the killer was capable of hanging little girls from trees, he or she would also be able to extract from him where they were hiding. She thought of her fiancé and felt warm all over. Her father had been adamant: the wedding must be canceled. And even though she had argued her hardest, she complied in the end. Her feelings said no, but her common sense knew better. They couldn’t fill a church with family and friends right now. It would be irresponsible. No one would benefit. Not now that Marion was number five.
Tick-tock, little Marion is number five.
Her father had been incredibly angry with Mia, but Miriam was grateful for knowing. Better to know what they were talking about than to live in ignorance.
“Why don’t you say something, Mom?”
“Daddy is at work, but he loves you very much, he told me to tell you that.”
The little girl threw aside the blanket and got up. “I think I’m ready to go to bed now.”
“That sounds good, Marion. Would you like me to walk you upstairs?”
“I’m not a baby anymore.” Marion yawned. “I know perfectly well where it is.”
Miriam smiled. “Clever girl. Give your mom a good-night hug, then.”
The little girl bent down and gave her mother a long hug.
Her daughter skipped across the floor in her nightdress and up the stairs. Miriam got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She heard her cell phone beep and ran back to check who it was.
Sorry, Miriam, but we have to move you again tonight. Something has happened, will explain later. Am sending someone to get you now. OK? M.
Damn—now? Marion had only just gone back to bed. Oh, well. Her daughter was still light enough to be carried. Something had happened. What could it be? She replied:
OK.
She went out into the hallway and found the suitcase. She hadn’t packed much. A few changes of clothing for both of them. Toiletries. The bare essentials. It took only ten minutes to pack everything. She brought the mug of tea with her from the kitchen and sat down on the sofa again. She wondered where they were going this time. The first apartment had been small, no television, just one room, something that had driven her a little crazy, claustrophobic. This one was much bigger and furnished luxuriously. She believed it was used for visiting VIPs who didn’t want to be seen. Very anonymous. Perfect for keeping nosy journalists at bay. Like her. Was that why she had dropped out of journalism school? Because being a journalist wasn’t good enough? Because she would rather do something more useful? Help people? No, that wasn’t it. There was nothing wrong with being a journalist; she didn’t know where that idea had come from. There were different kinds of journalists, just as there were different kinds of teachers and police officers. Some journalists wrote about celebrities. Others uncovered injustices. That was the kind of journalist Miriam had wanted to be. Fight for something. Use her brain to enlighten people, rather than dull their minds with lists of who was best dressed and what celebrities ate for Christmas.
She’d just finished her tea when the doorbell rang. Miriam jumped up and pressed the intercom.
“Hello?”
“Hi, are you ready?”
“I’m ready, just come up.”
She pressed the buzzer and put on her shoes. Went to the suitcase in the hallway and put on her jacket. She hoped that Marion wouldn’t wake up during the car journey. She would be crotchety, and perhaps she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep again.
There was a soft knock on the door. No doorbell. What a considerate police officer, Miriam thought, for being aware that a child was asleep here. She went to open the door. There was someone outside. Wearing a kind of mask. And a wig. She had no time to react. The figure pressed a cloth into her face. She heard the words:
“Night-night.”
And she was out cold.
58
Mia Krüger was sitting at a table by the window in a Kaffebrenneriet café, trying to force herself to wake up. She had passed out on the bed in her hotel room, having set the alarm first as she felt too guilty to allow herself more than a few hours’ sleep. But her body disagreed; it wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, crawl under the duvet, keep on dreaming.
She strangled a yawn and called Kim Kolsø.
“Yes? Kim speaking.”
“Did we get anything from the nursing-home staff?”
“No.” He sighed. “No one knew her very well. Malin Stoltz would appear to have kept mostly to herself.”
“Are you still up there?”
“No, we’re coming back to town now. We need to contact any members of staff who weren’t at work today. See if we can get anything from them.”
“Keep me informed, will you?”
“Will do.”
Mia strangled another yawn and went up to order another coffee. It was the only way she could jump-start herself. Coffee. And plenty of it. To get her head in gear again. Her body going. She had dreamed about a maze of mirrors and been unable to find her way out; she had felt utterly confused and trapped, and the feeling still weighed her down. She ordered a double espresso and was about to carry it back to her seat by the window when she suddenly noticed two women absorbed in an intimate but rather loud conversation at a table close to the counter.
She couldn’t avoid overhearing what they were talking about.
“So we tried everything, but it didn’t work,” one of them said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, was it you or your husband who couldn’t have them?” the other one said.
“They never found out,” the first woman said.
“How awful for you,” the second woman said.
“Yes, if it hadn’t been for the support group, I never would’ve gotten over it. As for him, he just refused to talk about it,” the first woman said.
“Have you thought about adoption?” the second woman said.
“I really want to, but he . . . well, I don’t think he does. I can’t make him talk about that either.”
“How stupid. Surely helping a child with no parents benefits everyone? It’s a win-win.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, but he—”
“I’m sorry,” Mia said, walking up to them. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
The two women stared at her.
“A support group?” Mia asked. “What kind of support group were you talking about?”
The first woman looked a little offended, but she replied nevertheless.
“A support group for women who can’t have children. Why do you want to know?”
“I have a friend . . .” Mia began, but changed her mind. “I . . . I can’t have children, sadly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the first woman said, her attitude changing. She was no longer offended. Mia was a fellow club member—they were playing for the same team.
“Was that here in Oslo?” Mia continued.
“Yes.” The woman nodded. “In Bøler.”
“Are there many of them around?” Mia wanted to know.
“Yes, they’re everywhere. Where do you live?”
“Thank you so much,” Mia said. “I’ll look for one.”
“You’re welcome,” the woman said. “Have you thought about adoption?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Mia said, picking up her coffee from the counter. “Thank you so much.”
“We need to stick together.” The woman gently squeezed Mia’s arm.
“Yes, we do.”
Mia carefully carried her coffee back to her table, just as her phone rang.
“Yes? Mia speaking.”
“It’s Ludvig, are you busy?”
“N
o.”
“I’ve got something. On the church.”
“What is it?”
“We investigated them some years ago. Hvelven Care Center in Hønefoss made a complaint.”
“Go on.”
“Looks like the church has done this before. Persuaded old people to leave them their money.”
“In Hønefoss?”
“Yes, three cases. None of them went to court. They were resolved through mediation.”
A nursing home in Hønefoss. The nursing home in Høvik. There had to be a link.
“Can you get me the names of all staff working there during the time frame we’re talking about?”
“It’s on its way,” Ludvig said.
“Can you check another thing for me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you check if there was a support group for childless people in Hønefoss in the period before the baby disappeared?”
“Of course I can. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning when everything opens again.”
“Super. Any news about Malin Stoltz?”
“Still missing without a trace.”
“We’ll find her.”
“If anyone can do it, it’s you,” Ludvig said.
“Thank you, Ludvig.”
“You’re welcome.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Mia ended the call, knocked back her coffee in one gulp, put on her leather jacket, and left the café with a smile on her lips.
59
Mia Krüger could only feel sorry for Holger Munch as he sat beside her while they drove to the chapel in Bøler. They’d worked together on countless cases, but she didn’t remember ever seeing him so burdened. He drove in silence, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, staring vacantly through the windshield with an empty, almost resigned expression. The pressure lay like a heavy cloak on top of the otherwise unruffled detective. This case had reached deep inside his private life. He was involved. Threats had been made against little Marion. Malin Stoltz had clearly managed to rattle Holger Munch to such an extent that he was no longer thinking straight.
“Nothing from the nursing home?” she asked in a calm voice.
Munch shook his head grimly. “It looks as if Malin Stoltz lived two lives,” he told her. “People knew her at work, but no one had any contact with her outside work.”
“Did you manage to talk to your mother?”
Mia knew that this was a sensitive question, but it had to be asked. They had more important priorities than to worry about feelings now.
Munch nodded. “The man who heads the church is some dick by the name of Pastor Simon.”
He just about managed to utter the name, Mia noticed. He seemed shaken to his very core. Perhaps Anette had been right after all. Perhaps he should have been taken off the case. At this moment in time, Mia was inclined to agree with her.
“That was all? No surname?”
Munch sighed and shook his head. “Pastor Simon, that was all. I’ve asked Gabriel to see if he can find out any more about him.”
“And this Lukas Walner? Did she know who he was?”
Munch said, “I believe he’s this Simon’s assistant.”
“And you’ve seen them both?”
Mia knew this was also not a question Munch wanted to hear, but it had to be asked.
“From a distance, yes,” Munch replied briefly as he opened his window.
He tossed the cigarette out and lit a new one just as they arrived at the white chapel. If Mia hadn’t known where they were going, she wouldn’t have picked this as the building they were looking for. From the outside there was nothing to suggest that it was a place of worship; it looked like a Boy Scout hut or some other anonymous public facility. It wasn’t until they’d walked through the gate and reached the door that she could see that they had indeed come to the right venue. It said METHUSELAH CHURCH on a small sign beside the front door, and above it there was a small crucifix. The place seemed deserted. The door was locked, and she could see no signs of activity anywhere.
Munch walked down the steps and along a gravel path that led to the back of the building. Mia was about to follow him when her phone rang. She briefly considered ignoring it—given the state that Munch was in, she really didn’t want to let him out of her sight—but the whole unit was now on red alert, so she couldn’t. She watched the back of his duffel coat disappear around the corner as she pressed the green button.
“Yes, Mia here.”
“Are you Mia Krüger?”
The voice was unfamiliar.
“Yes, who am I talking to?”
“You’re hard to track down.” The voice let out a sigh.
“Is that right? Who is this, please?” Mia said.
“I’m sorry if this is a bad time,” said the man on the other end. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while, but as I said, it hasn’t been easy.”
Mia followed Munch around the corner and watched her colleague peer through a window.
“And what is this about?” Mia said impatiently.
“My name is Albert Wold,” the man continued. “I’m the sexton of Borre Church.”
Borre Church.
Her whole family was buried in its cemetery.
“Go on,” Mia said.
“Like I said, I’m sorry for disturbing you,” the sexton continued.
“Has anything happened?”
Munch moved away from the window and continued to walk around the white chapel.
“Yes. We discovered it a week ago, and the whole thing seems very strange. We didn’t know what to do, apart from contacting you, obviously.”
“And what has happened?”
“One of your family graves has been desecrated,” the sexton said.
“What?” Mia said. “How?”
“Well, that’s the odd thing,” the man continued. “It would appear that the only grave affected is your sister’s.”
Mia Krüger stopped in her tracks and forgot all about keeping an eye on Munch. “Sigrid’s grave?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the sexton said sadly. “As far as we can see, none of the other graves has been touched.”
“Desecrated. How?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” the man went on. “The whole business is really very unpleasant. Someone has deleted your sister’s name.”
“Deleted it? What do you mean?”
“With a can of spray paint. At first we thought it was just ordinary vandalism—it does happen, with these out-of-control teenagers we have here—but we soon noticed that this was different. What made it so odd.”
Mia glanced around for Munch, but she couldn’t see him anywhere.
“What do you mean, different?”
“Now it says your name instead.”
“What?”
“Someone has painted over Sigrid’s name and written yours instead.”
A wave of unease washed over Mia Krüger just as she saw Munch reappear around the corner of the building. He gestured to her that they were going back to the car.
“Would it be possible for you to come up here?” the sexton asked.
Munch tapped his watch and waved irritably to her on his way to the Audi.
“I’ll try to get there as soon as I can,” Mia said, and ended the call.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Munch shouted out to her. “This place seems deserted. We have to issue descriptions of both Lukas and this pastor.”
“Pardon?” Mia responded distractedly.
Someone had been to Sigrid’s grave.
“We have to issue a description,” Munch said again, getting angrier. “We have to find these idiots and bring them in for questioning.”
&nb
sp; Munch started the car and drove down Bogerudveien. Mia was contemplating telling Munch about the conversation she’d just had when his cell rang. The conversation lasted less than ten seconds. When he disconnected, his face was if possible even whiter than it had been a moment ago.
“What is it?” Mia asked anxiously.
Munch was almost incapable of speech now. He could barely squeeze out the words.
“It was the nursing home. My mother has suddenly taken a turn for the worse. I have to go there right away.”
“Oh, God!” Mia exclaimed.
“I’ll drop you off in the center of town. You sort out the wanted notice.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
She searched for some way to show her sympathy but found none.
Munch switched on the flashing blue light, hit the accelerator, and sped toward the center of Oslo.
V
60
Emilie Isaksen was driving along Ringvollveien. She was new to this area—she’d lived in Hønefoss less than twelve months—and it suddenly struck her that she was taking a roundabout route. Emilie Isaksen taught Norwegian, and several of her pupils lived around here, a few kilometers outside the town center. She shifted down to second gear and turned off onto Gjermundboveien.
Emilie Isaksen had known that she wanted to be a teacher from the moment she started college. She found work right after completing her teacher training, and she had enjoyed her job from day one. Several of the teachers at the school had given her advice when she first started, and they meant well—how important it was to look after yourself, not take your work home with you, don’t get too close to the pupils—but that wasn’t the way Emilie did things. And that explained why she was in her car now.
Tobias Iversen.
She had noticed him from the first lesson, a good-looking, gangly boy with alert eyes. But something was wrong. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. He was well liked, so popularity wasn’t the issue. She hadn’t grasped the problem initially, but it came to her in time. His mother never attended Parents’ Evenings. Neither did his stepfather. They didn’t reply to letters. They didn’t answer their phone. She was quite simply unable to contact them. And then she’d started noticing the bruises. To his face. His hands. She didn’t teach PE, so she hadn’t seen his body, but she suspected that he was bruised all over. She’d had a quick word with his PE teacher, but he was the old-fashioned type. Kids fall down and they get hurt. Especially unruly boys—what was she implying? She’d tried to question Tobias tactfully. Was he all right? How were things at home? Tobias had refused to open up, but she saw it in his eyes. Something was not right. There might be teachers who were prepared to overlook something like this, who didn’t want to get involved—the sanctity of the home and all that—but Emilie Isaksen was not one of them.
