by Samuel Bjork
‘I need you to go there at once.’ Mikkelson said.
‘OK, I’m on my way,’ Munch said, ringing off.
He discarded his cigarette and was about to go back inside when the door opened and Miriam appeared.
‘Is everything all right, Dad?’ his daughter asked, looking at him with a frown.
‘What? Oh yes … It’s just … work.’
‘OK,’ Miriam said. ‘I thought I would just—’
‘What, Miriam?’ Munch said impatiently, but then checked himself and patted her shoulder affectionately.
‘Prepare you for the big announcement,’ his daughter said, avoiding eye contact.
‘What announcement?’
‘They’re getting married,’ Miriam said swiftly, still evading him.
‘Who?’
‘Mum and Rolf. I tried telling her that now might not be the best time to announce it, but, well …’
Miriam was looking at him now, clearly worried.
‘So are you coming inside?’
‘I’ve got a case,’ Munch said abruptly, not knowing what else to say.
Getting married? The afternoon had started out with such promise, and he had, well, what had he really been hoping for? He got annoyed with himself. What was he thinking? There clearly was no fool like an old fool. But now he had something else to focus on.
‘So you’re off?’ Miriam said.
‘Yes.’ Munch nodded.
‘Hang on, I’ll go and get your coat,’ Miriam said, and returned with his duffel coat shortly afterwards.
‘You’ll have to pass on my congratulations,’ Munch mumbled, and made a beeline for his car.
‘Call me, won’t you? I want to talk to you about something, it’s important to me. When it’s convenient for you, promise?’ Miriam called out after him.
‘Of course, Miriam. I’ll call,’ Munch said, before he jogged down the gravel path, quickly got into his black Audi and started the engine.
Chapter 5
It was barely five o’clock in the afternoon and yet it was nearly pitch black when Holger Munch reached the police cordons on the far side of Hurumlandet. He pressed his ID card against the windscreen and was quickly waved on by a young officer, who looked a little embarrassed at having stopped him.
Munch parked his car on the verge a few hundred metres inside the cordons and stepped out into the cold autumn air. He lit a cigarette and tightened his duffel coat around him.
‘Munch?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Olsen. I’m the head of operations.’
Munch shook the glove-clad hand belonging to a tall, broad, middle-aged police officer he did not recognize.
‘Status update, please?’
‘The victim was found approximately six hundred metres from the road, in a north-north-westerly direction from here,’ Olsen said, pointing through the dark forest.
‘Who is up there now?’
‘Forensics. Pathology. One of yours … Kolstad, is it?’
‘Kolsø.’
Munch opened the boot of the Audi, took out his wellingtons and was about to put them on when his mobile rang.
‘Munch?’
‘It’s Kim. Are you here?’
‘Yes, I’m down by the road. Where are you?’
‘I’m up by the tent. Vik has finished and is getting impatient, but I’ve told them not to move her until you get here. I’ll come down to meet you.’
‘Great. What does it look like?’
‘We won’t be getting much sleep for a while. This is one sick bastard.’
‘What do you mean?’ Munch said, as a sudden, uneasy feeling crept over him.
Holger Munch had nearly thirty years’ experience as a homicide investigator under his belt; by now, he had seen most things. He could usually keep a professional distance from the scenes he encountered and, if the statement had been made by anyone other than Kim Kolsø, he would not have worried. Had it been Mia, who allowed herself to get emotionally caught up in every single case, or Curry, who was up and down like a yoyo all the time, he would have brushed it off, but Kim? This did not bode well.
‘Do you want me to tell you, or see for yourself?’ Kolsø went on.
‘Give me a brief summary,’ Munch said, sticking a finger into his ear as a patrol car from the crime scene suddenly turned on its siren and passed close by him.
‘Are you still there?’ he heard Kolsø say.
‘Yes, yes. Please repeat what you just said.’
‘Teenage girl; sixteen or seventeen, we think,’ Kolsø continued. ‘Naked. It looks like a kind of, how can I put it … ritual? Feathers all around her. And candles …’
Munch stuck the finger back into his ear when yet another patrol car followed its predecessor, with flashing blue lights.
‘… arranged as a kind of symbol …’
Kolsø’s voice cut out once more. Munch glared at Olsen, who was talking on his mobile while gesturing towards something that was happening near the cordons.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Munch said.
‘Some kind of pentagram formation,’ Kolsø went on.
‘What?’
‘Naked teenage girl. Her body twisted into a strange position. Her eyes are wide open. Feathers all over the place …’
More static.
‘I’ve lost you!’ Munch shouted, sticking his finger into his ear once more.
‘… a flower.’
‘What?’
‘Someone stuck a flower in her mouth.’
‘A what?’
‘You’re breaking up,’ Kim crackled. ‘I’m coming to get you.’
‘OK, I’m by the—’ Munch shouted into his mobile, but Kolsø had already rung off.
Munch shook his head and took another deep drag on his cigarette as Olsen came up to him again.
‘A couple of nosy reporters got a little too close at first, but I think we’ve finally managed to cordon off the whole area now.’
‘Good.’ Munch nodded. ‘Have you started door-to-door inquiries? The houses up there?’
‘Yes.’ Olsen nodded in turn.
‘Anyone seen anything?’
‘Not that I’ve been told.’
‘Right, make sure to include the camping site further up the road. I imagine it’s closed down for the winter season, but the caravans are still there. You never know, we might be lucky.’
Olsen nodded again, and disappeared.
Munch put on his wellingtons and found a woolly hat in his coat pocket. He chucked aside the cigarette and lit a fresh one with raw, cold fingers which were barely able to flick the lighter. Good God, surely it had been summer just the other day? It was only late afternoon, and already it was as cold and dark as a winter’s night.
Kim came towards him, appearing in between the trees, his face in darkness behind a large torch.
‘Are you ready for this?’
Ready for this?
‘Stay close behind me. The path is a trip hazard.’
Munch nodded, and followed his colleague towards the path which led up through the woods.
Chapter 6
Miriam Munch was standing outside the flat in Møllergata, wondering whether or not to ring the bell.
Julie’s flat. Julie was an old friend who had texted Miriam repeatedly to say that she absolutely had to come. Years ago the two of them had been close; rebellious teenagers, they would hang out at Blitz and volunteer for Amnesty International, believing there was a point in protesting against oppression. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. A different era. Another life. Miriam sighed as her finger slowly approached the doorbell, but she pulled it back and continued to procrastinate. Marion was with Grannie and Rolf. A sleepover. She had insisted on spending the weekend after her birthday there. Johannes was working as usual, their flat was empty and not terribly tempting, but even so she could not make herself ring the bell. It was not as if she had not been to a party since having Marion, for heaven’s sake. No, she did have a social l
ife; it was something else that stopped her. She looked down at her shoes and suddenly thought she looked ridiculous. Wearing a frock and pretty shoes. She could not remember the last time she had dressed up like this. She had spent over an hour in front of the mirror at home, trying on different outfits, put on make-up, changed her mind, changed her clothes, removed her make-up, sat down on the sofa, turned on the TV, looking for anything that could make her relax, but she had found nothing. So she had turned off the TV again, reapplied her make-up, had another session in front of the mirror in various outfits, and now here she was. As nervous as a teenage girl, butterflies in her tummy for the first time in ages.
What do you think you’re doing?
She shook her head, despairing at herself. She was happy, wasn’t she? She had repeated this sentence many times in her head these last weeks. You’re happy, Miriam. You have Johannes. You have Marion. You have the life you wanted. And yet she could not help it – thinking thoughts she should not. She had tried, but they refused to go away. At night, her head on the pillow, just before she went to sleep. In the morning, from the moment she woke up. In front of the mirror in the bathroom when she cleaned her teeth. When she took Marion to school, waving goodbye from behind the large, cast-iron gate. The same thoughts over and over again, and this image in her head. A face. All the time the same face.
No, this won’t do.
She had made up her mind.
No further.
She took a deep breath and had started walking quickly down the stairs when the door behind her opened and Julie appeared.
‘Miriam? Where do you think you’re going?’
Julie had had quite a lot to drink already; she waved a full glass of red wine in one hand and laughed out loud.
‘I saw you from the window but thought you might have got lost. Come in.’
Julie raised her glass in a toast and beckoned Miriam up the stairs again.
‘I got the wrong floor,’ Miriam lied as she walked slowly up the steps to hug her friend.
‘Darling,’ Julie giggled, and kissed her cheek. ‘In you come, in you come.’
Julie – who had once known everything about her – dragged Miriam inside the flat and kicked the door shut behind them.
‘No need for you to take off your shoes. Come on, you have to meet everyone.’
Reluctantly, Miriam let herself be ushered into the living room, which was crammed with guests. There were people sitting on the windowsills, sofas and armrests, and on the floor; the small flat was packed to the rafters. The smell of tobacco and illegal substances wafted heavily across the room, across bottles and glasses in all shapes and sizes. A young man with a green Mohican had hijacked the sound system and was playing The Ramones so loud the walls were shaking, and Julie was forced to shout at the top of her voice to get everyone’s attention, something Miriam could have done without.
‘Oi, Kyrre,’ Julie whistled. ‘Turn that wannabe punk rock off.’
Miriam said nothing; she suddenly felt overdressed and completely exposed as she stood hand in hand with her friend in the doorway.
‘Everyone, hello!’ Julie shouted as the boy with the Mohican reluctantly turned down the volume. ‘This is my dear old friend, Miriam. She has joined the ranks of the upper classes now, so do try to behave like human beings rather than plebs tonight, will you?’
She laughed uproariously at her own joke and raised her red-wine glass in a toast.
‘Wait, everyone, I haven’t finished. Miriam is the daughter of a police officer. Yes, you heard right. Her father is the super-detective himself, Holger Munch, so if you don’t want the Drug Squad crashing this party, then keep your weed out of sight. Geir, I’m talking to you.’
She pointed her glass in the direction of a young man with dreadlocks and an Icelandic sweater who was slumped on the windowsill with a big joint between his lips and a blissful smile on his face.
‘Right, you can turn it up again.’ Julie smiled to the young man with the Mohican. ‘But if you’re going to play punk rock, then please pick something decent.’
Miriam wished more than anything that the ground would open up and swallow her but, luckily, no one seemed to care about what Julie had said. Two seconds later the music was back on and people were bent over their drinks as if nothing had happened, while Julie dragged Miriam through the living room and into the kitchen, where she poured her a brimming glass from a carton of red wine on the kitchen counter.
‘I’m so thrilled that you could come,’ her friend said, giving her another long hug. ‘I’m a little tipsy, sorry.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ Miriam smiled, looking cautiously around the kitchen.
He had not been in the living room, nor was he here. Perhaps she had worried unduly. A party. It was just a party. A party with people her own age, acting like teenagers. That was all it was. Nothing more. She had been to enough formal dinners with Johannes’s doctor friends. Spent enough time discussing cars and country cottages, brands of silverware and china. She was wearing the wrong clothes but, apart from that, it was like the old days. Just a party. Nothing else. No harm done.
‘Is that true?’
Miriam turned to the spot where Julie had just been standing, but she found someone else in Julie’s place.
‘Is that true?’ the young man in front of her said again with a cautious smile.
‘Is what true?’ Miriam asked, glancing around the kitchen a second time.
‘That Holger Munch is your father? The police officer? He’s a homicide investigator, isn’t he?’
Miriam felt a certain irritation at the question. She had heard it many times, had dealt with it ever since she was a child – her daddy is a policeman, we can’t tell Miriam anything – but when she met the eyes of the young man who had asked the question, she realized that he meant well, no hidden agenda. She was no longer eight years old and alone in the school playground. The young man wore a white shirt and round glasses, he had kind eyes and was merely expressing an interest, no ulterior motive.
‘Yes, he’s my father,’ Miriam said, sensing for the first time in a long while that it was actually OK to say so.
‘Cool,’ the young man with the round glasses said, and sipped his drink, looking as if he wanted to say something more, but found nothing.
‘Yes, it is cool,’ Miriam said, raising her gaze over the rim of her glass of red wine once more.
‘And what do you do?’ the young man said.
‘What do you mean?’ Miriam said, a little defensively. She regretted it immediately.
The lad was shy and a little awkward. He was just trying to make conversation; he might even be trying to hit on her, something he quite clearly did not have much experience of or talent for. She was almost starting to feel sorry for him as he stood there, clutching his drink, hoping that tonight might be his lucky night. He seemed just as out of place as her, his white shirt tucked into pressed trousers and shoes which almost looked like shiny, expensive Italian shoes but which were not, only a cheap copy. She shook her head at herself, ashamed at the last observation. Years ago, she would have been one of the people sitting on the windowsill with a joint between her lips; these days, she could spot the difference between a pair of genuine Scarosso shoes and fakes.
‘I’m a mum,’ she said kindly. ‘I used to study journalism, and I think I might go back, but right now I’m just a full-time mum.’
‘Oh, right,’ the lad with the round glasses said, looking slightly disappointed.
Miriam Munch was a pretty girl, never short of interested parties or offers. I have a six-year-old daughter, however, was usually enough to make them slink away with their tail between their legs. Never mind that she also had a boyfriend.
‘And what do you do?’ she asked, still kindly, but the air seemed to have gone out of his balloon now and the young man was already looking for someone else.
‘He’s brilliant at designing posters, aren’t you, Jacob?’
And suddenly ther
e he was.
‘Jacob, this is Miriam; Miriam, this is my friend Jacob. I see the two of you have already met, how nice.’
He winked at her and smiled.
‘Oh, so she’s the one you’ve …’ the lad with the round glasses said; he seemed a little embarrassed and all at once very keen to get away.
‘I think I need another one,’ Jacob mumbled, pointing to his drink before he disappeared.
‘She’s the one? As in …?’ Miriam smiled.
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, laughing softly. ‘Nice dress, by the way. Good to see that somebody here has style.’
‘Thank you,’ Miriam said with a small curtsy.
‘So?’ he said.
‘What about it?’ she asked.
‘Don’t you think it’s getting a bit crowded here?’
‘Far too crowded.’ She giggled.
‘I’ve heard they serve quite a decent margarita down at Internasjonalen.’ He smiled.
‘I never thought I would ever say this’ – Miriam laughed – ‘but right now I could really do with some tequila.’
‘Then that’s what we’re going to do.’ He winked at her, put his drink down on the kitchen counter and calmly led the way through the noisy crowd.
Chapter 7
Investigator Jon Larsen, known as Curry to his friends, tried to get into his flat but struggled to fit the key into the keyhole.
He had promised his fiancée to stop so many times. They had been saving up for over a year. Two thousand kroner every month; Fiji was her dream destination. Three weeks in paradise. Drink exotic cocktails with parasols. Swim with colourful fish in azure seas. Time off from a job she did not really enjoy; only now he had gone and ruined it again.
Curry muttered curses under his breath and eventually managed to get the tiny key inserted into the barely visible keyhole, letting himself into the flat as quietly as he could. He tried hanging up his jacket but missed the peg and stood swaying in the hallway, wondering whether to head for the bedroom or to exile himself to the sofa immediately. It was where he ended up sleeping when he came home in this state, pissed out of his mind, incapable of explaining himself, having squandered their savings. Yet another poker game. A big loss – again. He had had good cards all night but had then gone all in with a straight, only to be met by a flush; the winner grinned at him across the table as his chips found a new owner. He had no choice but to get drunk, surely she could see that?
