by Samuel Bjork
‘What?’
Munch turned off Drammensveien and on to Høvikveien.
‘You know all the symbolism?’ Mia continued.
‘Yes?’
‘Wouldn’t you say that it’s a bit obvious?’
‘Possibly,’ Munch said. ‘That’s your area of expertise.’
‘No, seriously, Holger, I mean it.’
‘Yes, I understand, only I can’t follow all the twists and turns of your brain. It makes me dizzy.’
He muttered this last as he drew up outside Høvikveien Care Home.
‘Here we go.’ He sighed, turning off the ignition.
Mia was convinced that, if he had been a Christian, he would have made the sign of the cross. It was clear that Holger Munch was dreading this conversation.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Mia said. ‘Just relax.’
‘I need one more cigarette,’ Munch said, and got out of the car.
Mia followed him and took off her sunglasses. She was starting to feel slightly better. And being here in Høvik was fine. She was glad she had come with him after all.
‘Go on, try me,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, why not? Make me see inside your head.’
‘OK,’ Mia said, sitting down on the bonnet. ‘What was the first sign he left us?’
‘I thought we were looking for a woman?’
‘Never mind that now. What was the first clue?’
Munch shrugged his shoulders.
‘The dresses?’
‘No.’
‘The satchels?’
‘No.’
‘Mark 10:14, ìsuffer the little childrenî?’
‘No.’
‘Go on, then, enlighten me.’
Munch sighed and took another drag on his cigarette.
‘Toni J. W. Smith,’ Mia said.
‘And why is that the first clue?’
‘Because it doesn’t quite fit. Everything else fits, doesn’t it? It’s a part of the bigger picture, but it’s not what we need to look at. We need to look beyond it.’
‘Aha!’ Munch said, clearly intrigued now.
‘So the first clue which didn’t fit?’
‘The name on the book?’
‘Exactly. A clear sign, wouldn’t you say?’
‘A sign of what?’
‘Of intent, Holger. Come on, try harder.’
‘Intent?’
‘Oh, I give up.’ Mia sighed.
Holger took another long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke at the spring sun.
‘OK, intent,’ Munch said. ‘All the other symbols are fake. Washing the girls. The dresses. The school items. Toni J. W. Smith was invented by a someone with an agenda? By someone with a plan?’
‘Good, Holger.’ Mia clapped her hands somewhat ironically.
‘Yes, yes, I haven’t lost it completely.’
‘And what does Toni J. W. Smith mean?’
‘Hønefoss.’
‘Precisely. And what about the other symbols?’
‘The pig’s blood?’
‘No, that’s the third.’
‘What was the second?’
‘Do you remember Roger Bakken’s three text messages?’
‘Yes?’
‘Which one of them didn’t fit?’
‘Did any of them fit?’
‘Yes, of course. Try again, Holger. Icarus flew too near the sun. Eagle wings. Bye Bye Birdie, a gay musical. Roger Bakken was a gay man with a bird tattoo. Everything fits, but not “Who’s there?” It’s the odd one out.’
‘That was clue number two? “Who’s there?”’
Mia nodded.
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure, but I discovered yesterday that it’s the opening line of Hamlet.’
Munch lit another cigarette and glanced nervously towards the entrance. Mia was sorely tempted to laugh. A grown man, the head of a special unit, and yet he was frightened to confront his own mother.
‘And Hamlet is about to open at Nationaltheatret? Veronica Bache’s mobile? Her great-grandson? Is that where we should be looking?’
‘Not sure,’ Mia said, and thought about it. ‘I’ve worked out what we should be looking for, but not why. That’s as far as I’ve got.’
‘And the pig’s blood is number three?’
Mia nodded.
‘And that means what?’
‘I did say I hadn’t got that far,’ Mia said, and found a lozenge in her pocket. ‘Are we going inside, or are we going to stand out here all day? If we get bored, we could always pay a visit to Ballerud Golf Course.’
Mia pointed to a sign across the road.
‘What do you mean?’ Munch said.
‘It’s a funny name, don’t you think? Ballerud Golf Course?’
Munch shook his head. He had no idea why she was in such a cheerful mood; he wasn’t in on the joke, nor did he think there was anything worth joking about. He stubbed out his freshly lit cigarette and led the way up the steps and into the care home.
Chapter 39
There could be little doubt that Høvikveien Care Home was a facility for the more affluent. A typical west Oslo place, Mia thought as they walked through the doors and into the light, airy reception area. The place was spotless. Clean and pleasant, with new furniture, modern light fittings, original prints on the walls. Mia recognized several of the artists. Her mother, Eva, had been very interested in art and taken the girls to a wide range of exhibitions whenever the opportunity arose.
There were photographs of different activities on the walls. A display cabinet filled with trophies. Trips around Norway and abroad. Bridge tournaments. Bowling. Even though it was the last stop on life’s journey, there was nothing here to suggest it. At Høvikveien Care Home life was not over until you had swum in the Dead Sea or won a prize for growing pumpkins.
‘Wish me luck,’ Holger sighed as he disappeared down one of the corridors.
To a private room, Mia guessed. With an en suite bathroom, television, radio and round-the-clock service. None of the elderly residents here would ever have to lie for days in a soiled nappy without food or water. She sat down in one of the armchairs and found a magazine. 60Plus – ‘the magazine for your best years’. ‘Light exercise prevents dementia.’
‘Toppen Bech’s lipstick matches her car.’ Mia could well imagine what her grandmother would have had to say about a place like this, and to such magazines, and smiled at the thought. She put down the magazine and was about to pick up another when she noticed a certificate on the wall. ‘Høvikveien Care Home 2009 Canasta Christmas Tournament. Winner: Veronica Bache.’ Mia got up to have a closer look. Yes, indeed, it was Veronica Bache. It had to be the same woman. She went over to the glass counter and rang a small bell. A few seconds later, one of the carers appeared from a back office.
‘Hi, can I help you?’
The carer matched the rest of the care home. Gentle, pretty, with glowing cheeks. Perhaps they only hired people who matched the interior design. No worn-out staff clustered behind the kitchen puffing on roll-ups here. The woman was about her age. Good posture and attractive, with bright-blue eyes and her black hair scraped back in a swishy pony tail.
‘My name is Mia Krüger,’ Mia said.
She considered producing her warrant card, but decided against it.
‘I’m Malin. And who are you here to see?’ the gentle girl said.
‘I’m here with a friend, Holger Munch. He’s visiting his mother.’
‘Hildur, yes.’ The girl with the blue eyes smiled. ‘Great lady.’
‘Absolutely.’ Mia nodded. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that Hildur’s friend, Veronica, won the canasta tournament. It says so on one of the certificates over there.’
‘That’s right.’ The girl smiled. ‘We have a tournament every Christmas. I think Veronica won the last three before she passed.’
‘I’ve never played canasta,’ Mia said.
‘Me
neither.’ The soft-spoken girl winked at her. ‘But the old people seem to enjoy it.’
‘That’s the most important thing.’ Mia smiled. ‘Listen, something has occurred to me, and pardon me for asking, because you might not be allowed to tell me, but was Bache related to that good-looking actor, by any chance?’
‘Benjamin Bache?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
The girl with the blue eyes looked at her for a moment.
‘Hmmm, I’m not supposed to say anything,’ she said.
‘I understand.’ Mia nodded. ‘Did he used to visit often? Did you see him? Is he just as handsome in real life?’
The woman with the ponytail smiled.
‘He didn’t come here that often, just a few times a year. And, just between us, he’s better-looking on TV.’
She giggled.
‘I see.’ Mia smiled.
‘Would you like a coffee while you wait? I’m just about to start the lunch round, so I don’t mind making a cup for you if you’d like one?’
‘No, I’m all right. But thanks,’ Mia said, and went back to her chair.
The woman with the blue eyes smiled again, and disappeared into the back office. There was a small television in one corner. Mia looked for the remote control and found it next to the screen.
They had scheduled a press conference for today at noon. Mia Krüger was thrilled that she had got out of that part of the job. The media. She had a strained relationship with journalists and never felt at ease in their presence. It was almost as if you had to have two faces, never say what you were really thinking – and that was her problem. It went against the grain. She liked being straightforward. She guessed it was the same with the theatre. Some people loved the limelight; others would do anything to avoid it. She turned up the volume slightly and changed channels to NRK. ‘Babes in the wood’. The channel’s logo was not quite as obvious here as elsewhere, but it was on the screen. Mia Krüger shook her head and turned up the volume another notch. Two anchor men in the studio, a reporter in front of the stairs at Grønland. The press conference would appear to have been postponed. Mia turned off the TV again, went outside and rang Gabriel’s number.
‘Hi?’
‘Why has it been postponed? Has anything happened?’
‘No, we’re about to begin.’
‘Will Anette be taking it today?’
‘Yes, I think so, along with the public prosecutor. The one with the short hair.’
‘Hilde.’
‘Might be.’
‘Did you discover anything else about Veronica Bache?’
‘Was I supposed to?’
‘No, but I’ve stumbled across something,’ Mia continued. ‘Please would you check it out for me?’
Gabriel sighed.
‘Of course. What is it?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, only, it’s a lot to get your head round. And besides …’
‘And besides what?’
‘No, it’s nothing. My girlfriend is pregnant.’
‘Is she? Congratulations.’
‘Er, thank you … What did you want me to look up for you?’
‘I’m not quite sure, it’s just a hunch I have. I would like access to Høvikveien Care Home’s Ö now, what do you call it …?’
‘Waiting list? Are you thinking of moving in?’
‘Good God, it didn’t take you long to settle in.’ Mia laughed.
‘Sorry,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m having a bit of a crap day.’
‘Well, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault that your girlfriend is pregnant,’ Mia teased him. ‘You only have yourself to blame for that.’
‘Yes, I guess so. Is it normal to want things in the middle of the night?’
‘What things?’
‘Soft ice.’
‘I’ve heard rumours that pregnant women get bizarre cravings,’ Mia said.
‘Have you any idea just how difficult it is to find soft ice in the middle of the night?’
Mia laughed.
‘That’s right, ha-bloody-ha,’ Gabriel said.
The young man was clearly not in the best of moods.
‘No, I mean a list of staff. And guests.’
‘Guests?’
‘Or whatever you call people who live in a care home. Inmates? Residents?’
‘I know what you mean. I think we refer to them as staff and clients.’
‘Great, can you get it for me?’
‘Legally?’
‘No.’
‘If I get into trouble for this, I expect you to cover my back.’
‘You’ve been on that course with Hat-trick, I can tell.’
‘Yes, indeed I have.’ Gabriel sighed.
‘Of course I’ll take responsibility,’ Mia said. ‘Høvikveien Care Home. Do you need the address?’
‘No, I can look it up. Am I looking for anything in particular?’
‘No idea. Like I said, it was just a hunch. Munch’s mother and Veronica Bache lived at the same care home. I mean, it’s worth checking out.’
‘Munch’s mother?’
‘Did I say that out loud?’
‘Damn, am I going to have to lie to Munch now?’ Gabriel sighed. ‘I don’t suppose he’s meant to know anything about this.’
‘Good boy,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve got to run. When’s our next full briefing?’
‘Three o’clock.’
‘Good, talk to you later.’
Mia ended the call just as Munch appeared on the steps. She was about to join him, but stopped when she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A female carer in the same white uniform as the girl with the blue eyes was standing next to him. Pretty and slim with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair. She laughed out loud and touched Munch, who, for his part, acted like a teenager, his cheeks flushed and his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. Mia popped a lozenge into her mouth and wandered to one side. Munch and the carer with the strawberry blonde hair exchanged a few comments, then she touched him again before disappearing back inside with a smile.
‘How did it go?’ Mia asked when Munch came down to the car.
‘Don’t ask,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.
‘Who was she?’
‘Who?’ Munch asked.
‘Who do you think?’
Munch got into the car without putting out his cigarette.
‘Oh, her. That’s … I think she’s called Karen. She looks after my mother. I just had to …’
Munch started the car and pulled out on Høvikveien.
‘Yes? You just had to what?’
‘Any news?’ Munch said, changing the subject.
‘The press conference is on now.’
Munch turned on the radio. Mia heard Anette’s voice: ‘No news, we’re still looking. We would welcome any information.’ They had nothing new to announce. Even so, the world demanded a press conference. Mia glanced at Munch, who was still lost in a world of his own. She wondered if she should tell him that Veronica Bache had shared a care home with his mother, but decided to let it lie for now. Gabriel was on the case and Munch looked as if he had enough on his plate.
‘You have to see a psychologist,’ Munch said out of the blue when they were back on Drammensveien.
‘What do you mean?’
Munch took out the business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
‘You have to see a psychologist.’
‘Says who?’
‘Mikkelson.’
‘Screw that.’
‘Don’t look at me. They heard your call last night. They don’t think you’re all there.’
‘Well, they can forget about that,’ Mia snarled.
‘That’s exactly what I told them.’
‘Then we agree.’
Mia opened the glove compartment and chucked the business card in it without looking at it.
‘Bloody cheek.’
‘What had you expected?’
‘How about a b
it of respect?’
‘Good luck with that.’ Munch sighed. ‘Why don’t we stop for a burger on the way back?’
‘Fine by me,’ Mia said.
Munch found an exit and pulled up at a petrol station, just as it started to rain.
Chapter 40
The rain was tipping down outside the windows of Aftenposten’s editorial offices at Postgirobygget. They had gathered in Grung’s office to watch the press conference, which had been scheduled for noon but been postponed for ten minutes. Present were Mikkel Wold, Silje Olsen, Erik Rønning and Grung, their editor, and although Mikkel did not like to think of it in such terms, for once he had been given the VIP seat, a leather chair next to Grung. There had been a shift since that phone call at Skullerud. He had moved up the ranks. Suddenly, he was at the centre of events. Grung turned down the TV volume and opened the meeting.
They had kept it in house that the killer had contacted them. They had not run a story on it. Not yet. This was the agenda for the meeting. Should they use it? And, if they did, then how?
‘I say we wait,’ Silje said, taking a bite of her apple.
‘Why?’ Grung said.
‘Because we don’t know if he or she will go underground if we go public with it.’
‘I say we run it. Why the hell not?’ Erik said.
The twenty-six-year-old, highly talented journalist had been the apple of Grung’s eye ever since he first hired him, and he usually got the chair which Mikkel was now occupying. If the young lad was jealous or envious, he was hiding it well. He sat relaxed, his legs apart, but he was playing with a rubber stress ball.
‘What’s to stop her from calling VG tomorrow? Or Dagbladet tonight?’ he went on. ‘We have the chance of a scoop, but we have to act now.’
Mikkel Wold rolled his eyes. Erik had started using the word ‘scoop’ quite a lot after winning the Scoop Prize last year for a series of features about the homeless in Oslo.
‘So why hasn’t she called them already?’ Silje sparred.
Silje and Erik were like day and night. She: twenty-something, loud, pierced lip and vociferous, left-wing liberal views, certainly for someone working for Aftenposten. He: calm, level-headed, usually dressed in a suit, water combed hair, every mother-in-law’s dream, with a pleasing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Whenever there was a discussion at the office, the two of them were usually on opposite sides of the argument.
