by Samuel Bjork
Perhaps he had been mistaken? What if she wasn’t here? Perhaps she had just stayed here for a brief period before moving on, hiding somewhere else?
‘Hello? Mia?’
Munch continued into the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief. On the kitchen counter below one of the windows there was a coffee machine, one of those big, complicated ones you saw in coffee bars, rather than in people’s homes. He smiled to himself. Now he was sure he was in the right place. Mia Krüger had few vices, but the one thing she could not do without was good coffee. He had lost count of the number of times she had drunk his coffee at work and scrunched up her nose. ‘How do you drink this dishwater? Doesn’t it make you sick?
Munch walked over to the worktop and touched the shiny machine. It was cold. It had not been used for a while. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could still be nearby. But something felt very wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there. He couldn’t resist the temptation, and started opening cupboards and drawers.
‘Hello? Mia? Where are you?’
Chapter 10
Mia Krüger awoke with a jolt and sat upright in her bed.
Someone was in her house.
She had no idea how she had ended up upstairs – she did not remember getting undressed or going to bed – but that was irrelevant right now. There was someone in the house. She could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Bottles being taken out of a cupboard and put on the floor. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, stuck her hand inside her underwear drawer and pulled out her gun, a small Glock 17. Mia Krüger did not like guns, but she was not an idiot, either. She tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom, opened the window in the passage and crept out on to the small roof. She felt the cold wind against her bare shoulders and suddenly realized that she was wide awake. She had been sound asleep. Dreaming about Sigrid. A field of yellow wheat. They had been running through the field. Sigrid in front of her, her hair bouncing in slow motion.
Come to me, Mia, come.
Mia shook off the last remnants of sleep, tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans, jumped down from the roof and landed, nimble as a cat, in the grass. Who the hell could it be? Out here? In her house? About as far from civilization as it was possible to get? She crept around the corner and glanced quickly through the living-room window. No one there. She continued steadily towards the back door, which also had a small window: no one inside. Carefully, she pushed open the door and waited in the doorway for a few seconds before she tiptoed into the hallway. She positioned herself by the entrance to the living room with her back against the wall and took a deep breath before she entered, still with her pistol held out in front of her.
‘Is that any way to greet an old friend?’
Holger Munch was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the table, smiling at her.
‘You bloody idiot,’ Mia sighed. ‘I could have shot you.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Munch grinned and got up. ‘I’m not much of a target.’
He patted his stomach and laughed briefly. Mia placed the gun on the windowsill and went over to give her old colleague a hug. It was not until then that she realized that she was cold, that she was not wearing any shoes or properly dressed and that the pills from last night had yet to leave her system. Her instinct had taken over. Provided her with strength she did not have. She collapsed on to the sofa and wrapped herself in a rug.
‘Are you OK?’
Mia nodded.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Did I scare you?’
‘A little,’ Mia conceded.
‘Sorry,’ Munch apologized. ‘I’ve made some tea. Do you want some? I would have made coffee, but I have no idea how to work that spaceship of yours.’
Mia smiled. She had not seen her colleague for a long time, but their banter was the same.
‘Tea would be good.’ She smiled.
‘Two seconds.’ Munch smiled, too, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Mia glanced sideways at the thick file lying on the table. She did not have a telephone, Internet or access to the newspapers, but it was not difficult to work out that something had happened in the outside world. Something important. So important that Holger Munch had got on a plane, into a car and then on a boat to talk to her.
‘Do we go straight to business, or do you want to do small talk first?’ Munch smiled again and put the teacup on the table in front of her.
‘No more cases for me, Holger.’
Mia shook her head and sipped her tea.
‘No, I know, I know.’ Munch heaved a sigh as he slumped down on one of the spindle-back chairs. ‘That’s why you’re hiding out here – I get it. Not even a mobile? You’re difficult to track down.’
‘That’s kind of the point,’ Mia said dryly.
‘I get it, I get it.’ Munch heaved another sigh. ‘Do you want me to leave right now?’
‘No, you can stay for a while.’
Suddenly, Mia felt uncertain. In two minds. Up until now, she had felt resolved and determined. She rummaged around in her pocket, but could find no more pills. Not that she wanted some, not with Holger Munch there, but a drink would have been welcome.
‘So what do you think?’ Munch asked, and tilted his head a little.
‘What do I think about what?’
‘Are you going to take a peek at it?’
He nodded towards the file on the table between them.
‘I think I’ll pass,’ she said, tightening the rug around her.
‘OK,’ Munch replied, and took out his mobile.
He entered the number of the young man with the messy hair.
‘Munch speaking. Can you pick me up, please? I’m done out here.’
Mia Krüger shook her head. He had not changed. He knew exactly how to get his way.
‘You’re an idiot.’
Munch covered the microphone with his hand.
‘What did you say?’
‘All right, all right. I’ll take a quick look at it, but that’s it. OK?’
‘Forget about picking me up. I’ll call you later.’
Munch ended the call and edged his chair nearer to the table.
‘So how do we play it?’ he asked, placing his hand on the file.
‘I want a pair of socks and a thick jumper. You’ll find everything in my bedroom. And then I want a drink. There’s a bottle of cognac in the cupboard below the kitchen worktop.’
‘Have you started drinking?’ Munch said, getting up. ‘That’s unlike you?’
‘And if you can keep quiet, that would be great,’ Mia said, and opened the file on the table in front of her.
It contained about twenty-five photographs and a crime-scene report. Mia Krüger spread the photographs across the table.
‘What do you think? First impression?’ Munch called out from the kitchen.
‘I can see why you’ve come,’ Mia said quietly.
Munch returned, put the drink on the floor beside her and disappeared again.
‘Take as long as you need. I’ll fetch anything you want and then I’ll go down and look at the sea, all right?’
Mia did not hear what he said. She had already shut out the world. She took a large gulp of her drink, exhaled deeply and began studying the photographs.
Chapter 11
Munch sat on a rock watching the sun go down on the horizon. He had always thought of Hønefoss as quiet – when he lay in his room at night, there was barely a sound – but it was nothing compared to this. This was true silence. And beauty. Munch had not seen a view like this for a long time. He could see why she had chosen this place. Such calm. And what clean air. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It really was unique. He looked at the time on his mobile. Two hours had passed. It was a long time, but she could have all the time in the world. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps he should just stay out here? Follow her example, throw away his mobile. Ignore the world? Let go completely? No, there was Marion to thin
k about; he could never abandon her. He didn’t care much about anyone else. But then he started to feel guilty. An image of his mother in her wheelchair on her way to her prayer meeting flashed up in his mind. He hoped it had gone well. That was supposed to be his job. Taking her to the chapel every Wednesday. He had no idea why she insisted on going, she had never been very religious in the past; not that it made any difference. The situation made Munch feel uncomfortable, but his mother was old enough to know her own mind.
‘Holger?’
Munch’s train of thought was interrupted by Mia’s voice calling out from the house.
‘Have you finished?’
‘I think so.’
Munch got up quickly, stretched to combat the stiffness and walked briskly back towards the house.
‘So what do you think?’
‘I think we need food,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve heated some soup.’
Munch entered the living room and sat down on the spindle-back chair again. The photographs were no longer scattered across the table but were back inside the folder.
Mia appeared, said nothing, put a bowl of steaming-hot soup on the table in front of him. It was clear that she was distracted; he recognized that look of hers: she was lost in thought and did not want to be disturbed. He ate his soup without saying a word and let her finish hers before coughing softly to rouse her.
‘Pauline Olsen. That’s an old-fashioned name for a six-year-old girl,’ Mia said.
‘She was known as Line,’ Munch said.
‘Eh?’
‘She was named after her maternal grandmother, but she was only ever called Line.’
Mia Krüger looked at him with an expression he could not quite fathom. She was still somewhere deep inside herself.
‘Line Olsen,’ Munch continued. ‘Aged six, due to start school this autumn. Found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random passer-by. No signs of sexual assault. Killed with an overdose of Methohexital. Satchel on her back. It was stuffed full of schoolbooks – not hers; as I said, she had yet to start school. Pencil case, ruler, all the books bound with paper, no fingerprints. Every book is labelled with the name Toni J. W. Smith, rather than the victim’s own, for some reason. Her clothes are clean, freshly ironed; none of them her own, according to her mother. Everything is new.’
‘It’s a doll,’ Mia said.
‘Pardon?’ Munch said.
A glassy-eyed Mia slowly filled her glass; she had fetched the cognac bottle from the kitchen while he had been outside, and it was almost empty.
‘The clothes belong to a doll,’ Mia continued. ‘The whole outfit does. Where are they from?’
Munch shrugged apologetically.
‘Sorry, I only know what it says in the report. I’m not investigating the case.’
‘Mikkelson sent you?’
Munch nodded.
‘There will be others,’ Mia said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There will be others. She’s just the first.’
‘Are you sure?’
Mia gave him a look.
‘Sorry,’ Munch said.
‘She has a number on the nail of her little finger,’ Mia said.
Mia took a photograph from the folder. A close-up of the girl’s left hand. She placed it in front of Munch and pointed.
‘Do you see? A number has been scraped into the nail of her little finger. It might look like just a scratch, but it isn’t. It’s the number one. There will be others.’
Munch stroked his beard. To him, it looked like just a scratch, and it had been noted in the report as such, but he said nothing.
‘How many?’ he said, to prompt her.
‘As many as the number of fingers, perhaps.’
‘Ten?’
‘It’s hard to say. Could be.’
‘So you’re sure? That there will be others, I mean?’
Mia rolled her eyes at him again and took another swig of her drink.
‘This is clinical. The killer took his time. Incidentally, I’m not sure that it’s a man, or it could be a man, but he isn’t, well Ö’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Normal. If it is a man, then he’s not normal.’
‘You mean in terms of sexual inclination?’
‘It doesn’t quite add up, and yet it does, if you know what I mean. Yes, it adds up, but not exactly … something doesn’t add up, and yet it does, somehow.’
She had left him behind now; she was no longer in the room but back inside her own head. Munch let her continue without interrupting her.
‘What is Methohexital?’
Munch opened the folder and flicked through the crime-scene report before he found the answer. She had not read it, of course. Only looked at the photographs, like she used to.
‘It’s marketed under the brand name Brevital. A barbiturate derivative. It’s used by anaesthetists.’
‘An anaesthetic,’ Mia said, and disappeared back inside herself.
Munch was desperate for a cigarette, but he stayed put. He did not want to light up inside, nor did he want to leave her, not now.
‘He didn’t want to hurt her,’ she suddenly said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The killer didn’t want to hurt her. He dressed her up, he washed her. Gave her an anaesthetic. He didn’t want her to suffer. He liked her.’
‘He liked her?’
Mia Krüger nodded softly.
‘Then why did he hang her with a skipping rope?’
‘She was about to start school.’
‘Why the satchel and the books?’
She looked at him as if he were a complete idiot.
‘Same reason.’
‘Why does it say Toni J. W. Smith rather than Pauline Olsen on the books?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mia sighed. ‘That’s the bit which doesn’t add up. Everything else does, except for that, wouldn’t you agree?’
Munch made no reply.
‘The embroidered label at the back of her dress. “M10:14”. That adds up,’ she continued.
‘Mark 10:14. From the Bible? ìSuffer the little children to come unto meî?’
Munch had remembered this detail from the report, which was actually quite thorough, but they had overlooked the significance of the line on the nail.
Mia nodded.
‘But that’s not important. M10:14. He’s just messing with us. There’s something else which matters more.’
‘More than the name on the books?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mia said.
‘Mikkelson wants you back.’
‘To work on this case?’
‘Just back.’
‘No way. I’m not coming back.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not coming back,’ she exploded. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going back.’
Munch had never seen her like this before. She was trembling; she seemed on the verge of tears. He got up and walked around to the sofa. Sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her head towards his armpit and stroked her hair.
‘There, there, Mia. Let’s call it a day. Thank you so much.’
Mia made no reply; Holger could feel her skinny body quiver against him. She really was unwell. This was something new. He pulled her to standing and helped her up the stairs. Ushered her into the room, to the bed, and covered her with the duvet.
‘You want me to stay the night? Sit here with you? Sleep downstairs on the sofa? Make you some breakfast? I could try to make that spaceship work. Wake you with a cup of coffee?’
Mia Krüger said nothing. The pretty girl he was so fond of was lying almost lifeless under the duvet, not moving. Holger Munch sat down on a chair next to the bed and, a few minutes later, he heard her deep breathing enter a calmer tempo. She was asleep.
Mia? In this state?
He had seen her exhausted and run down in the past, but never like this. This was completely different. He gazed at her t
enderly, made sure that she would not be cold and walked downstairs. He found the path leading to the jetty and took out his mobile from the pocket of his jacket.
‘Mikkelson speaking?’
‘It’s Munch.’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s not coming.’
There was silence from the other end.
‘Damn,’ he heard at length. ‘Did she say anything useful? Something we’ve missed?’
‘“There will be others.”’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I just said: there will be others. She has a number scratched into the nail of her little finger. Your people missed that.’
‘Damn,’ Mikkelson swore, and fell silent again.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Munch said eventually.
‘You had better come back,’ Mikkelson said.
‘I’m staying here until tomorrow. She needs me.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I want you to come back.’
‘We’re reopening the unit?’
‘Yes. You’ll report directly to me. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.’
‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow evening,’ Munch replied.
‘Good,’ Mikkelson replied, and another silence followed.
‘And, no, Mia won’t be coming,’ Munch said in reply to the question that was hanging in the air.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I guarantee you,’ he replied. ‘Mariboesgate, the same offices?’
‘It’s already been taken care of,’ Mikkelson replied. ‘The unit has been reopened unofficially. You can pick your crew when you return to Oslo.’
‘OK,’ Munch replied, and quickly rang off.
He could feel the joy rise in him, but he did not want Mikkelson to know it. He was going back where he belonged. To Oslo. The unit was up and running again. He had got his old job back, and yet his joy was not complete. He had never seen Mia Krüger like this, so far gone, and he would not be bringing her back with him. And the thought of the little girl hanging from the tree continued to send shivers down the spine of the otherwise level-headed investigator.
Munch looked up at the sky. The horizon was darkening now. The stars bathed the silence in a cold light. He tossed his cigarette into the sea and walked slowly back to the house.
