by Samuel Bjork
It took nearly thirty-five minutes today. It was that icy. October, no longer September, but still it was almost winter. Perhaps it was all his fault? He had worried about this recently, that it might be his fault that it was so cold. The sky was heating up, he had read about it; the ice around the North Pole and the South Pole would melt unless you sorted your rubbish properly. Usually, he was very careful about it – food waste in the food-waste container, plastics in the plastic container; he never mixed cardboard or paper with the other rubbish, and always compressed milk cartons and cans before he threw them out – but he had been ill some weeks ago. His head had been aching, and he had had feverish dreams in the middle of the day, and it had made him forget all about recycling; he had just chucked everything into the same bin and, when he realized his mistake, it had been too late. He had eaten nothing for four days, in the hope that it would make up for his mistake, but he had started passing out and been forced to eat something in the end. When he had woken up the next day, there had been ice in the yard outside, and ever since then he had been sweating profusely, and he had hidden himself behind the kitchen curtains every time he saw light down on the road, scared that they had realized what he had done. That they were coming to get him. But, fortunately, none of the cars had turned off and driven up towards the house. They hardly ever did. He rarely had any visitors. Just the bin men on Tuesdays.
He attached the front wheel to the bicycle stand with one lock and looped the chain, which he had carried in his rucksack, around the rear wheel. He spent a few minutes checking that both locks were secure before he started the long walk towards the door. He never went straight inside; no, he had tried that once, and it had gone horribly wrong, his mind had been on other things, and he had just opened the door and stepped right into the shop, and no, that had ended badly. There had been wolves inside, huge, grey wolves with big eyes and slavering jaws, and he had been so scared that he had knocked over a stand with sunglasses and, on his way out, he had run right into the door, then an ambulance had turned up and they had laughed at him again, all the nurses and the doctors who had stitched his face with a needle and thread, and after that time he had learned that it was best to be careful. So now he always approached in a small arc, swinging past the glass doors so that he could take a look inside, then a quick glance at the advertisements, because it was OK to pretend to be looking at today’s promotions, you didn’t look stupid. Barbecue sausages for 19.90 kroner. Three packets of nappies for the price of two. No wolves today. The man with the white bicycle helmet heaved a sigh of relief, yet still he waited several minutes and had another look inside to be sure before he plucked up the courage and walked the last, heavy steps up towards the door to the supermarket.
As always, a bell rang out above him, but this time he was prepared, so he was not scared. He picked up a basket from the stack, took out his shopping list from his pocket and moved as quickly as he could up and down the aisles. Milk. Yes. Eggs. Yes. Salmon fillets. Yes. He was starting to feel better now: the things on his list were easy to put into the basket today; none of them refused, like they did sometimes. Bananas. Yes. Potatoes. Yes. Chicken. Yes. He began to smile: today was his lucky day; look how well it was all going. He liked chicken, but it would not always go into the basket, sometimes he had to eat just potatoes, but today nothing was difficult at all. The chicken came of its own accord today. Perhaps it was not his fault, after all, that winter had come so early? He smiled to himself, put the last items on the list into his basket and walked proudly up to the till.
The young woman put down a magazine and blew a big, pink bubble, and she did not look at him as if he were an idiot, no; in fact, she smiled faintly. He could feel his heart beat a little faster under his puffa jacket as he started putting his groceries on the conveyor belt. She had probably realized it, too. That today was his lucky day. That it was not his fault, this business about the weather.
‘Do you want a bag?’ the young woman said when she had scanned all the items.
‘No, thank you.’ He smiled contentedly, and was just about to put his shopping into his rucksack when he saw them.
On the stand nearest the till.
The newspapers.
Oh no. ‘Cash or card?’
He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.
On both front pages.
The photograph.
How could they have …?
‘Excuse me? How would you like to pay?’
‘The chicken came of its own accord,’ he muttered, not taking his eyes off the photograph on the front of the newspapers.
‘What are you talking about?’ the girl said.
‘The chicken.’
‘Yes?’ The girl sounded hesitant now.
‘It came of its own accord. It doesn’t always.’
‘No, OK …’ the girl behind the till said. ‘So will you be paying by card or cash?’
‘No, I have a rucksack.’
‘Rucksack?’
‘I don’t need a bag.
‘No, OK … But … How are you going to pay for your shopping?’
‘It’s not my fault.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I didn’t kill the cat.’
‘The cat?’
The expression in the girl’s eyes had changed.
‘I didn’t kill the dog either.’
‘The dog? Yes, OK … Will you be paying by card or …?’
A wolf was approaching. A fat wolf with glasses. From another door at the back of the supermarket. The wolf was getting closer and closer to him, and all the man in the white bicycle helmet wanted to do was run out of the shop, but his feet were no longer working; they seemed glued to the floor. He closed his eyes and stuffed his fingers into his ears; today was Tuesday, and it was probably better to hide in the bathroom, especially in March, when the bin men came – no, not March, October, the fox had said so.
‘Hello, Jim, is that you?’
Jim opened his eyes and saw that it was not a wolf after all. It was the nice man. The nice man with the beard who owned the shop.
‘The chicken wanted to get into the basket,’ he insisted as the nice man with the beard looked across to the girl behind the till, who just shrugged.
‘Is there a problem with the payment?’
The girl with the chewing gum pressed her finger against her temple and shook her head, but the nice man with the beard looked at her sternly so she quickly lowered it.
‘Come on, Jim, let’s pack up your shopping,’ said the nice man who owned the shop, and helped him get his things into the rucksack.
‘I didn’t kill the dog,’ Jim said, and shook his head vigorously.
‘I’m quite sure you didn’t,’ the nice man with the beard said, walking him to the doors, and they opened easily now, almost automatically.
‘Don’t worry about paying me today, Jim. We can do that some other time, OK?’
The nice man smiled and did not laugh, showing his teeth, even when Jim struggled with one of the bicycle locks.
‘You know that I’d be happy to deliver your shopping, don’t you? You only have to call, and I’ll come to your house.’
‘It’s very important to do things for yourself.’
‘Yes, of course it is. And you’re doing really well, Jim. But if you need anything, you just call, OK?’
‘The tip of the fox’s tail is white, that’s why it’s October,’ he said, before stepping hard on the pedals and cycling home: a new record this time, less than twenty-two minutes, even though it was terribly, terribly slippery, especially in the middle of the road.
Chapter 22
Curry woke up to a beeping sound and reached for the alarm clock on his bedside table to make it stop. His fingers found the button and the sound disappeared. He drifted back to sleep with a smile on his face, hugging the duvet around him and rolling towards Sunniva to feel the heat from her body. He loved lying like this. These short moments, brief minutes where they would act as if
neither of them had to go to work. When they turned off the alarm, pretending it was a day off to be spent as they wished, do exactly what they wanted: no demands, no bosses, just the two of them under the duvet. Her warm, soft skin against his as she buried her nose at the base of his neck and snuggled up to him, as if she wanted him to take care of her. Curry smiled and pulled her closer. Sunniva. He had known it from the very first moment he saw her. That she was the one for him. With her long, red hair and pretty smile; the woman always got her morning coffee at the same place he did every day, he on his way to the police college, she a nurse on her way to work.
Curry opened his eyes and saw a pile of cardboard boxes in a flat that was not his own, and reality slowly began to dawn on him. He had been asleep, fully dressed, on a sofa, not at home, no, definitely not at home; she had changed the lock, she must have done, because his key no longer fitted. The beeping sound came back. Curry slowly got up from the sofa and, still half asleep, followed the sound out into the hallway until he found a man on the other side of the door to Mia’s flat.
‘Mia Krüger?’ the man with the thin moustache said, checking a piece of paper in his hand.
‘Does it look like it?’ Curry mumbled, realizing he was still drunk.
A two-day bender. After she had told him she had had enough. Sunniva.
‘Eh, yes, no,’ the man said, looking around now, clearly taken aback by the sight he had stumbled upon.
Screw you, Jon. And this time I bloody mean it. I’ve had it up to here. All the money? All our money? Do you know how hard I’ve worked for that? Do you?
‘Do I look like my name is Mia Krüger?’
He could smell himself now, and hoped that this man had not noticed.
‘I can come back later,’ said the man, who was wearing a boiler suit; he looked almost apologetic now. ‘But there’s mould in the basement …’
‘What?’ Curry said. He was struggling to stay upright; the narrow passage was moving under his feet.
‘Only this is the last flat,’ the short man outside the door said. ‘The housing co-operative has …’
‘OK.’ Curry nodded, grabbing the wall for support as the floor underneath his feet started undulating.
A little later, he was outside Bislett Stadium, now also wearing his shoes and coat; he had given the man in the boiler suit the key to the flat, told him to just pop it through the letterbox. He searched his pockets until he found a box of snuff and stuffed a lump behind his upper lip as he flagged down a cab that was driving slowly down Bislettgata.
The lift at work felt oppressive. He had taken it a million times, but today was different. It was like being inside a tin can; he was relieved when the doors opened and let him out.
‘Hello?’
Curry slowly wove his way through the office, but it was quiet. He went to the kitchen, fetched himself a cup of coffee from the pot, slowly made his way to the incident room.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, so you decided to come in after all?’ Ylva had suddenly appeared in front of him in the corridor.
‘What do you mean, “after all”?’ Curry smiled, took a sip of his coffee, tried to appear sober.
‘Mia said you were ill, that you wouldn’t be coming in, that was all,’ she said, continuing in front of him down the corridor.
‘Yes, I have a bit of a cold,’ Curry said, and coughed. ‘But I had to come in. I couldn’t bear being at home, you know what it’s like. How are things here? Anything happened?’
He followed Ylva down to her desk, making sure to keep a safe distance so that she would not detect his bad body odour.
Bollocks.
He took out his mobile from his pocket: nothing, not a word from Sunniva, although he had called her a million times and left just as many messages.
Come on. Surely we can talk about this?
Why won’t you pick up the phone?
Call me?
Call me, OK? When you can?
I miss you.
Call me, please?
‘Anette took part in a press conference this morning at nine o’clock, and Munch gave a team briefing at ten. Has Mia brought you up to speed, or do you want me to?’
Ylva smiled and straightened her glasses, then went over to the computer by the window.
‘No, no,’ Curry said, and took another sip of his coffee. ‘I’m totally up to speed, obviously, but where are all the others?’
‘Would you like the short version of the morning meeting? Although you’re totally up to speed, obviously?’
Curry smiled and nodded back. She was not so bad after all, the newcomer. He followed her into the incident room.
‘So, how far had you got?’ Ylva said, pointing to the big board by the window. ‘Do you know about Anders Finstad?’
‘Eh?’ Curry said.
Ylva scratched her head and turned to him. ‘Why don’t I just start from the beginning?’
‘Thank you.’ Curry nodded and took a seat.
‘What’s the last thing you know?’ Ylva asked him.
‘Naked girl. Found strangled in the woods with a flower in her mouth.’
‘Camilla Green,’ Ylva said.
‘We’ve identified her?’
‘Yes,’ Ylva continued; they both knew he should have known this. ‘Camilla Green, aged seventeen, living at some kind of halfway home for teenagers, children in care. Do you want the details, or …?’
‘No, no, just make it quick.’ Curry smiled.
‘OK,’ Ylva said, turning to the board again. ‘So, Camilla Green. Reported missing from this place called Hurumlandet Nurseries three months ago, but then they withdrew the report because they were told that she was fine and not to look for her.’
‘Told how?’ Curry asked, feeling the detective inside him starting to stir.
‘A text message,’ she said, taking a piece of paper from the board and placing it in front of him.
‘Her telephone records?’
‘Yes.’ Ylva nodded. ‘Gabriel got them from Telenor yesterday, but the strange thing is, and this is something Munch, Kim and Mia have been discussing all day, that the message was sent from the Nurseries.’
‘What do you mean?’ Curry asked, surprised.
‘Gabriel should really be explaining this to you, but he said something about – mobile towers?’
‘Go on?’
‘Camilla disappeared, and they reported her missing,’ Ylva continued. ‘But then they got a text from her, saying she was OK and that they should stop looking for her.’
‘And that message was sent from that place? Hurumlandet Nurseries?’ Curry was intrigued.
‘Yep.’ Ylva nodded.
He got up and walked closer to the board with all the pictures.
‘So … you mentioned a name. Do we have a suspect already?’
‘Anders Finstad.’ Ylva placed her finger on a black-and-white picture of a middle-aged man in a riding helmet in front of something that had to be stables.
‘And who is this?’
‘The tattoo?’
‘What tattoo?’ Curry asked, starting to feel a bit stupid now.
A two-day piss-up, drinks in both hands, wallowing in self-pity, while a madman was on the loose. They had made extensive progress, and he had contributed sod all.
‘The initials AF – do you see them?’
‘Yes,’ Curry said, following her finger on the picture.
‘And the horse’s head?’
‘Aha?’
‘He’s Anders Finstad,’ Ylva said. ‘Camilla loved horses. Finstad runs a riding school, not far from the Nurseries, where she lived.’
‘And?’
‘We found him in our files: sixty-six years old. Previously reported for assault. Encouraged two girls at the riding school to strip from the waist up in front of one of the horses so that he could take pictures of them. The girls were twelve and fourteen years old.’
‘Holy shit …’
‘I know.’ Ylva nodded.
‘So? What happened?’
‘The report didn’t lead to anything. Clever lawyer, lack of evidence – what do I know? – but, anyway, they’re focusing on Anders Finstad now. Camilla belonged to his riding school. She was a skilled rider, too, as far as I can gather. Might have been a contender for the junior national show-jumping team.’
‘Wow.’
Ylva nodded. ‘Mia has gone there now. The rest of the team are out at Hurumlandet Nurseries.’
‘Any cars left in the basement?’ Curry asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Ylva said, leading the way out into the corridor. ‘Do you want me to put you down as being on duty, or are you off sick?’
‘I thought it was Grønlie’s job to log that?’
‘Nope.’ Ylva sighed. ‘Does the newcomer always get all the crap jobs?’
‘You’ll have to take it up with Anette.’ Curry winked, found a set of car keys in the cupboard, left the empty coffee cup in the kitchen and took the lift down to the basement.
Chapter 23
Munch was quickly let through the cordons outside the entrance to Hurumlandet Nurseries and, as the press photographers’ flashlights struck his car, he was extremely pleased that he had chosen to send Mia to the riding school.
He shook his head and glanced up at the rear-view mirror as he drove up the avenue leading to the Nurseries. Helene Eriksen had called him early that morning, and she had not exaggerated: ‘The place has been invaded by the press, like a swarm of locusts, they get in everywhere. The girls are scared. What do we do?’
Munch smiled to himself as he parked in front of the main building and got out of the black Audi. He was starting to like Helene Eriksen. Locusts. He could not have put it better himself.
Munch lit a cigarette as Kim Kolsø came down the steps of the big white house.
‘What a circus,’ Kim said, nodding towards the bottom of the avenue.
