The Owl Always Hunts At Night

by Samuel Bjork

  ‘Do you like taking pictures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  You did not need to be the sharpest knife in the drawer to have noticed it. The glue marks on the back of the pictures. Old, brittle glue. The pictures used to be in an album. Cheap, brown plastic albums were lined up on the bottom shelf. The first was labelled 1989, the last 2012. She felt a twinge of compassion as she took out the first few albums, sat down on the beige sofa and started flicking through them. Not a single human being featured in any of them. The pictures showed trees, squirrels, steps, a feeding table. All dated and with a caption. A nice budgie, 21 February 1994. The birch leaves are out, 5 May 1998. She started turning the pages more quickly because she knew exactly what she was looking for, and it was easy to find: Blank spaces. Pages in the books where the pictures used to be. She soon found them. The dead cat, 4 April 2006. The poor dog, 8 August 2007. Six years ago. Five years ago. That long? With a one-year interval? Why would they …?

  Her train of thought was interrupted when the darkness that had now settled across the yard outside suddenly lit up briefly, only to grow dark again. She had not heard the car arrive, but there could be no doubt.

  There was someone outside.

  Mia reacted quickly; she returned the albums to the shelf, slipped out through the veranda door and hid behind the corner of the house, her lips pressed shut, so that her breathing would not give her away.

  How quiet it was out here.

  She could hear her own heartbeat.

  She could hear her own breathing.

  Who would want to live so far away from everyone?

  And then a sudden thought:

  Why the hell had she not brought a gun?

  She was banned, of course, from carrying a weapon. That applied to all members of Oslo’s police force. Officers were only allowed to carry a weapon if they were part of an armed response unit or had special permission. Mia had always preferred Glocks and had tried several models: the Glock 17, which was the standard model, but she also had a Glock 26, which was lighter and easier to conceal on her body. It was little comfort now. She could kick herself for not thinking to bring one.

  A car in the yard.

  She heard someone get out of the vehicle, followed by a knock on the door. First once, then twice. A visitor. Jim Fuglesang had a visitor. She took a deep breath, rounded the corner. Her police instinct took over and she scanned the area. There was a man on the steps, he weighed approximately eighty kilos and wore a coat; there was a white van parked in the yard, two seats in the front, no one in the passenger seat; a quick look in every direction, no other movement; the man on the steps appeared to be alone and was almost as startled at seeing her as she was at seeing him.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man stuttered.

  ‘Hi, I’m sorry,’ Mia said, put on a smile and walked towards him. ‘Mia Krüger, Oslo Police. I’m looking for Jim Fuglesang. Does he live here?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ the man with the beard said.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if he’s in,’ Mia said, still smiling.

  ‘Er, no,’ the man said. ‘Police? Has Jim done something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, it’s just a routine visit. And you are?’

  The man on the steps still looked shocked at meeting anyone out here.

  ‘Henrik,’ he said. ‘I, well …’

  He gestured towards his van, and she saw it now, the logo on the side.

  Hurumlandet Supermarket.

  ‘I deliver his shopping, but I hadn’t heard from him for a few days so I thought he might not have been able to leave the house, and I …’

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say that,’ the man replied. ‘But he has been a customer for years. He’s a bit – well, at times he needs help.’

  Mia had another quick look around. There was hardly any light left. Bloody autumn. She had not come here solely to check the albums; she had another reason which was just as important. She had hoped to try to find the path leading to the lake where Fuglesang had taken the pictures.

  ‘Doesn’t look like he’s in,’ Mia said with a light shrug.

  ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

  ‘No, it was about a … traffic incident in the area, a collision. We’re just checking to see if anyone saw anything.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ the man said, and walked down the steps with a worried look on his face. ‘A collision? Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘No,’ Mia said, looking around irritably again.

  The light had disappeared suddenly. As if someone had turned off a switch.

  Shit.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ the man offered. ‘I mean, I know everyone around here. Where did it happen?’

  ‘Is that your shop?’ Mia said, pointing at the name on the van.

  ‘Yes,’ the man said.

  ‘Henrik, did you say your name was?’

  ‘Yes, Henrik Eriksen, I—’

  ‘I’ll call you if I have any questions, OK?’ She put the smile back on.

  ‘Yes, of course. Would you like my number?’

  ‘I can find it, if I need it,’ Mia said, and got back in her car.

  She turned the car around in the small yard and drove down the narrow road.

  Bloody darkness.

  She would have to come back some other time. She had reached the main road when her mobile rang.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Ludvig.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You wanted to know about that address?’

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Not very much. The building is mainly flats, but there are businesses on the ground floor.’

  Finally, a streetlight appeared at the side of the road, and Mia relaxed. She was back in civilization.

  ‘Any second-hand bookshops?’

  ‘No, not as far as I can see.’

  Crap.

  The creepy feeling came back. Last night’s unexpected meeting. Out of the blue. He had tricked her. The hacker. Skunk.

  Bastard.

  ‘Thank you, Ludvig,’ Mia said, and drove back to Oslo.

  Chapter 53

  Isabella Jung was sitting on her bed in her room, still wearing her coat, feeling her heart beat faster under her jumper. Someone had slipped another note under her door. Same writing as before.

  Please would you meet me? In secret.

  Just you and me?

  She was back from visiting her dad in his new council flat in Fredrikstad. It was a long time since she had last seen him, and she had been excited about going, but their time together had not turned out the way she had hoped. He had not said very much. She had almost got the impression that she was in the way. It was nice to be back at the Nurseries.

  Isabella smiled and trailed her finger slowly across the white paper.

  Please would you meet me?

  Of course she would.

  She had guessed that it was from him when she got the first note. The one that had been pinned to her door. It must be Paulus. She had seen it in his eyes the first time he showed her the orchids. And she could not remember if she had looked at him the same way but, later, whenever she had the chance, she had made sure to do so.

  She understood that it had to be a secret. She had yet to turn sixteen, that was the reason. She was too young. A minor. Illicit love – only that made it more tantalizing.

  Isabella Jung was only fifteen years old, but she felt she had been a grown-up ever since she was little. She did not give a toss about age. What was age, anyway? It was just a number. But she understood him, of course she did. He was over twenty. He would lose his job; he might even go to prison, for all she knew. So she had kept it a secret. Just as he had. They had never touched. Not even hugged. Only exchanged looks. Him looking at her and her looking back at him.

  But then, finally, the note:

  I like you.

  And now this other one:

  Please would you meet me? In secret.

  Just
you and me?

  Isabella cherished the words, but she was confused. She had barely returned to the Nurseries before the rumours had reached her. The police had taken away Paulus and Benedikte Riis. They had had a row outside, the police had handcuffed them, and no one had heard from them since. A worried Isabella had gone to see Helene, but she had been turned away at the door.

  ‘I’m a bit busy right now, please come back later.’

  ‘But I just—?’

  ‘Later, Isabella, OK?’

  It was obviously to do with Camilla Green – all the girls agreed on that – but no one knew what was really going on. Some said they had heard Benedikte accuse Paulus of killing Camilla. All lies, of course. Everyone knew what Benedikte Riis was like. A liar. She would say anything to get attention. Of course Paulus had not done anything.

  There was a sudden knock on her door, and Cecilie popped her head round.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ the skinny girl whispered.

  ‘No, no, come in.’ Isabella smiled and quickly stuffed the note under her pillow.

  ‘Have you heard any more?’ Cecilie asked, sitting down on the bed next to her.

  ‘No, nothing, I’ve only just got back. You?’

  ‘People are saying all sorts of things,’ Cecilie said miserably, and now Isabella could see that her friend had been crying.

  ‘Don’t listen to them,’ Isabella said, putting her arms around the trembling girl.

  ‘Some say Benedikte murdered Camilla,’ Cecilie said. ‘Others that Paulus did it. Oh my God, what if it’s true?’

  Isabella sympathized; nothing felt safe now. She could feel it, too. The reporters. The police. The serenity and security out here had been destroyed.

  ‘It’s obviously not true.’ Isabella smiled.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ Cecilie mumbled, looking at her with her trusting eyes.

  They were the same age, but sometimes Isabella felt like Cecilie was only little. Cecilie had had a bad start. Bad people. Wicked people. Isabella had heard the gruesome details, but she could not bear to think about them now. Instead, she tried to think happy thoughts.

  Please would you meet me? In secret.

  Of course she would meet Paulus. She knew about that place of his. His secret place. The hideout on the far side of the estate. She also knew about his plants, but she had not told anyone.

  ‘Paulus hasn’t killed anyone,’ Isabella asserted.

  ‘What about Benedikte?’

  ‘Definitely not. She’s horrible, but she’s also as thick as two short planks. She couldn’t have pulled it off, even if she had wanted to, could she?’

  Isabella saw that Cecilie was starting to smile now.

  ‘She is, isn’t she? As thick as two short planks?’

  ‘Yes.’ Isabella smiled again.

  ‘Do you remember when we visited the Natural History Museum and she asked why they didn’t have any monkeys?’

  Isabella giggled.

  ‘And why all the animals were standing so still?’

  Cecilie was grinning now.

  ‘She thought we were at the zoo.’ Isabella howled with laughter.

  Cecilie joined in. ‘How stupid can you get?’

  ‘Really stupid.’

  ‘I hate bad people,’ Cecilie said suddenly, and curled up to Isabella again.

  ‘I’ll look after you. You don’t have to be scared,’ Isabella said, stroking the girl’s hair again.

  Suddenly the door was opened and a breathless Synne appeared.

  ‘They’re back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Paulus and Benedikte. They’re back. They’ve just arrived. In a police car. They went straight to Helene’s office.’

  He was back.

  Isabella’s heart skipped a beat.

  Please would you meet me? In secret.

  Just you and me?

  She smiled.

  Of course I will.

  Chapter 54

  Holger Munch hung up his duffel coat in the hallway, took off his shoes, went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. He found some painkillers, popped two in his mouth and washed them down with water before going to the living room, not knowing quite what to do with himself.

  He had been so tired that he had gone straight to bed after meeting Mia at Justisen, but he had been unable to sleep. Tossing and turning under his duvet, he had got up again and wandered aimlessly around the flat, before finally getting dressed and going for a walk.

  The headache had come without warning. There was a throbbing in his temples and behind his eyes. As if someone had slammed a bat into the back of his head, he had started to see stars and had a metallic taste in his mouth. A migraine?

  Holger Munch was perfectly aware that he was far from being the healthiest man on the planet, but his head had never troubled him before. It was almost three o’clock. In the morning. Why? He felt no tiredness now. Just this constant headache. He waited for the pills to kick in. Was he getting old? He was what – fifty-four, fifty-five, in a few days? – surely that was no age? Or was it? He shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the kettle and opened the door to the fridge. Food. Food had never been a problem for the fat investigator but, as he stood there, staring into the fridge, for once he could not see a single item he fancied. He took a mug from the cupboard above the sink, waited for the kettle to boil, then carried his mug of tea into the living room, where he stopped in front of the CD shelf.

  Something tasty to eat. Music in the background while he channel-hopped with the volume on mute. That was his usual routine. Clear his mind, switch off from the day that was nearly over; a form of meditation. A good meal, music, images from across the world flickering on the screen in the background – but now he could find nothing he wanted to listen to either. Munch sat down on the sofa and sipped his tea as the pain in his head slowly dissipated. It was pitch black outside the windows. The world was asleep, but he was unable to wind down. Suddenly, the flat felt gloomy. He had done his best, made a home for himself in Theresesgate. A yucca palm in a corner. Pictures of Miriam and Marion above the sofa. This CD rack, which covered most of the wall behind the television. He had been kidding himself, pretending to himself that this was a home, but it was not. No matter how he looked at it. Storage, that was all it was. Somewhere to be.

  While he waited for …

  Munch did not complete the thought but went to the bathroom and took another two painkillers. Pretended not to see the wedding ring he had taken off and left in there. He went back to the kitchen and opened the fridge, still without appetite. Went back to the CDs in vain.

  He was heading back to the sofa when his doorbell rang. He stopped for a moment before he understood the noise. He so rarely had visitors the sound was almost unknown to him. And in the middle of the night? It had to be a mistake. Someone had pressed the wrong button on their way home after a night out, but then the bell rang again. And again.

  Now irritated, Munch went over to the intercom.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Holger, it’s Mia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Mia. Please can I come up?’

  It returned instantly. The feeling that someone was bashing a nail into his temple.

  ‘Holger, are you there?’

  He had to steel himself in order to answer.

  ‘Do you know what time it is? What’s happened?’

  Mia outside his door. That was a first.

  ‘Skunk,’ Mia said, a grating voice at the end of the intercom. ‘The hacker.’

  ‘What?’ Holger said, leaning against the wall.

  ‘I think we’re being played. Please can I come up?’

  ‘It’s the middle of the night,’ Munch objected, pressing his hand against his forehead.

  ‘I know, but we need to talk,’ Mia insisted. ‘Are you going to let me in or what?’ she said, far below, in the street.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Munch said, and managed to pull himself together enough to press the butto
n that unlocked the front door.

  Chapter 55

  The little boy lay under the duvet, looking at the calendar on the wall next to his bed. He was so excited his whole body was taut. The big day. The one they had been looking forward to for so long. His mum had talked about it ever since … he tried counting, but he did not have enough fingers … well, certainly since the summer, probably before that. The big day. When everything would happen. OK, so he did not know exactly what would happen, but it was terribly important, and bigger than the sun or the moon, and the birth of the Earth. He pulled his thin duvet closely around his neck and looked at the calendar again. Although his mum had told him to go to sleep, it was quite impossible. December 1999. That was what it said. That was the year now. 1999. But that was not the exciting bit, the exciting bit was the page behind December 1999, the one he was not allowed to see until the clock struck twelve. He had sneaked a peek anyway; he couldn’t help himself. January 2000. Imagine that? The year 2000? The boy smiled to himself and could feel his toes curl up at the far end of the bed, like they always did when he was as happy as he was now; he could feel it all the way through his body, right up to his ears, which tended to get very hot, and that was good, because the small room was cold in December. Very cold. And they could only afford to buy logs for the wood-burning stove in the living room. Stoves were expensive. As was wood. He would usually go to sleep in his clothes and a woolly hat, but he could feel them all the same, his toes, how they curled up inside his socks.

  The big day. A new millennium. Fancy that. That just one day could be so important? That just a few minutes on the clock could make such a difference? The hands would go tick-tock and, hey presto! the hands would take away everything that was wicked, and the big day would arrive, the one they had been looking forward to. He tried counting again, but he still did not have enough fingers, nor was it easy to find all of them inside his mittens.

  The little boy had a clock on his wall, but it did not show the right time because the batteries had stopped working some time ago, and new ones were expensive; the hands were stuck on a quarter past five all the time. He could not trust it, so he had tried counting ever since his mum had told him to go to bed. The clock in the living room had shown five minutes past eight, and he had counted the seconds like this: one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three; but after one thousand five hundred and something, his head had started to spin, so it was better to wait in his bed until his mum came to tell him that it had arrived.