by Samuel Bjork
Erik had ground to a halt. He was no longer functioning. There was not a single movement or expression to be found in his face. The rubber ball sat half squeezed in his hand. His mouth was half open; a witty or sarcastic comment had stopped on its journey out into the room and was now going back inside his head. All four of them. Dumbstruck. Frozen. In total shock. So went the first five seconds.
The next fifteen seconds were the total opposite. Everyone started talking over one another. Like four children in a tunnel who had just realized that the goods train was coming towards them and that they couldn’t get off the railway tracks, there was just one way out and that was to run, even though, deep down, everyone knew it could only end in tragedy, but still they ran out of instinct. Random words bounced around the room.
‘Christ Almighty.’
‘We have to pick one.’
‘Jesus.’
‘What if it’s a hoax?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘But what the hell, we can’t just …?’
‘What if we don’t pick one?’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘We have to pick one.’
‘We can’t.’
‘This can’t be happening.’
‘Grung?’
‘Mikkel?’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘We can’t kill another human being.’
‘I think I’m going to throw up. I feel sick.’
‘We can save a human being.’
‘Erik?’
‘Silje?’
‘What happens if we do nothing?’
‘They both die.’
‘We can’t kill a little girl.’
‘Shit.’
‘We can save a little girl.’
‘Shit.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Shit.’
Twenty seconds had passed now. The clock in the office had no hand for seconds. It still said 12.16. It wasn’t helping. It didn’t count the seconds. That was the one thing they needed right now: not hours, not minutes, just seconds. The next ten were spent trying to work out how much time had passed. At this point, panic was spreading around the room like wildfire.
‘How much time has passed?’
Silje’s face was deathly pale.
‘How much time is left?’
Grung had stood up and was resting the palms of his hands against the table.
‘Did someone make a note of the time?’
Mikkel Wold looked his mobile, at the clock on the wall; without the second hand the numbers might as well have been painted on the wall. Four children on the railway tracks in a tunnel who can feel the vibrations of the train thundering towards them.
‘Let’s not waste time working out how much time has passed!’
Erik had got up, too, and banged his fist against the table. Once. Twice. Three times.
‘Let’s not waste time working out how much time has passed!’
Grung had moved his hands from the table and started pulling at his hair.
‘How much time has passed?’
This part took ten seconds. By now, thirty seconds had passed.
‘We have to think now!’ Erik shouted. ‘There’s no point shouting over each other.’
‘We can’t just shout each other down!’ Silje shouted.
‘We must decide!’ Mikkel Wold shouted.
‘What are we going to do?’ Grung shouted, still tearing his hair out.
‘Everyone, calm down!’ Erik shouted.
‘Let’s all calm down!’ Silje shouted.
By now, forty seconds had passed. Every single one of the last twenty seconds had felt like an entire minute in itself. Or an hour. Or a whole year. It was as if the hands had stopped moving and yet were running away at the same time. Erik was the first person to make a sensible suggestion.
‘Let’s vote.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t say anything. We’re voting now. Hands up everyone who thinks we ought to do something.’
Erik held up his hand. Grung held up his hand. Mikkel Wold held up his hand without quite knowing why; his reaction was pure reflex. Silje’s hands remained on the desk.
Forty-nine seconds had passed.
‘Three against one.’
‘But—’ Silje protested, but Erik was not listening to her.
‘Hands up everyone who votes to save Karoline.’
‘You mean, kill Andrea?’ Silje wailed.
‘Hands up!’ Erik shouted.
By now fifty-three seconds had passed.
‘Hands up if you think we ought to save Karoline!’ Erik shouted again, desperate now; the train was nipping at his heels, this was the only way out, make it stop or derail it.
He raised his hand and stared at Grung. Grung copied him and looked desperately at Silje.
‘No,’ Silje sobbed. ‘No, no, no.’
By now, fifty-seven seconds had passed.
Grung and Erik were standing with their hands in the air now. They both looked at Mikkel Wold.
‘Yes or no?’ Erik demanded.
Mikkel Wold tried to raise his arm from his lap, but it refused to move. It felt leaden. His arm had never been that heavy before. It refused to obey him. Or maybe that was exactly what it was doing. His brain didn’t know.
By now, fifty-nine seconds had passed.
‘Come on!’ Erik roared. ‘Do we save Karoline or not?’
‘We kill Andrea,’ Silje sobbed. ‘We can’t do that.’
‘Yes or no?’ Grung bellowed.
He had clumps of hair in the hand which was raised in the air. Mikkel Wold tried to lift his hand again, but it was still stuck to his lap.
Then his mobile rang.
The room fell completely silent. Their time was up. The mobile rang again. Mikkel Wold was staring at it, yet he had no idea where it was. He couldn’t see it clearly. It could have been in another room. On the moon. He didn’t know what to do. Finally, Erik Rønning leaned over and pressed the screen.
‘Hello, again,’ the metallic voice said.
There was total silence around the table.
‘I’m very excited,’ the voice said. ‘What did you decide?’
None of them was capable of uttering a single word.
‘Is anyone there?’ the voice asked.
Silje looked at Grung, who looked at Erik, who looked at Mikkel Wold, who looked at his fingers.
The metallic voice cackled.
‘Has the cat got your tongue? I need an answer now. Time is running out. Tick-tock.’
Erik Rønning cleared his throat.
‘We …’
‘Andrea?’ the chilling voice asked. ‘Or Karoline? Who gets to go home? One girl dies, one girl lives. How hard can it be?’
‘They both live,’ Silje sobbed.
The metallic voice laughed again.
‘Oh no, Miss Olsen, that’s not how we play. One lives, one dies. You get to decide who lives and who dies. It feels good, doesn’t it? Being master of life and death. It’s a bit like being God. Isn’t it fun to play God, Rønning?’
The room fell completely silent again. The seconds crawled past at a snail’s pace. Mikkel Wold’s brain had stopped working. Silje was hugging herself. Grung was standing up, with both hands in the air. Erik Rønning opened his mouth and was just about to say something.
‘Right,’ the cold voice said. ‘Both of them it is. It’s a shame really, but if that’s what you want, who am I to argue? Thanks for playing.’
‘No,’ Silje cried out, and lunged for the phone with both hands, a last desperate attempt to knock some humanity into the icy, metallic being, but it was too late.
The voice had already gone.
Chapter 43
Mia Krüger was sitting on the smoking terrace watching Munch destroy his lungs. They had just finished today’s briefing and Munch was in a particularly bad mood.
‘How is that possible?’ he kept repeating, rubbing his eye
s.
None of the team had slept much in the past week, but Munch looked as if he might have slept even less than the others. Mia had been waiting for the right moment to tell him what was on her mind, but she was having second thoughts. She couldn’t be sure. It was just a hunch. But a hunch which had grown stronger as the day went by.
‘How is that possible?’ Munch said again, lighting his next cigarette with his current one.
‘What are you talking about?’ Mia said, taking out a lozenge from her jacket pocket.
‘Eh?’ Munch grunted, turning to her.
When he realized who he was talking to, his eyes softened.
‘All of it,’ he said, rubbing his eyes again. ‘Surely someone must have seen them? Two six-year-old girls don’t just vanish into thin air.’
‘Have we had a ransom demand yet?’
‘We’ve had bugger all. The families have offered a reward of half a million, I believe. You would have thought that amount of money would make someone come forward.’
‘Will they increase it to a million?’
Munch nodded.
‘They’re announcing it tomorrow. We’ll just have to cross our fingers.’
‘… and hope that not every nutter in the world jams our switchboard,’ Mia said.
‘That’s the risk we run,’ Munch sighed, taking a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Did you manage to contact Benjamin Bache?’
Mia nodded.
‘I’m meeting him at four thirty at the theatre. He could only spare me half an hour. I think he’s doing Karius and Bactus, The Tooth Trolls as well as rehearsing Hamlet. Do you want to come along?’
Munch shook his head.
‘No, you take that one. Does he live in his great-grandmother’s flat? Is that the address to which the bills are sent? You know the drill.’
‘No problem,’ Mia said.
‘I just refuse to believe it,’ Munch said. ‘Someone must have seen something. Our killer getting in and out of a car? Going in or out of a cabin? In or out of a basement? The girls have to be fed. Is our killer buying extra food? Our killer …’
He continued to stare at the tip of his cigarette.
‘If it’s that well planned, then we need a lucky break, you must be aware of that,’ Mia said quietly.
‘And it does seem well planned, doesn’t it?’ Munch sighed.
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Mia nodded. ‘It could have been years in the preparation, for all the evidence we have.’
‘And we know what that means,’ Munch said. ‘The girls will be dead if we don’t find them soon.’
Mia said nothing. She, too, stayed where she was, staring down at the street. Sometimes, she envied the people down there. Normal people. Who owned a corner shop or bought shoes for their kids. Who didn’t have to deal with stuff like this. She found another lozenge in her pocket and braced herself.
‘There something I have to tell you,’ she said to Munch.
‘Spit it out,’ he said.
Mia paused as she struggled to find the right words.
‘What is it?’ Munch urged her.
‘I think that you’re involved,’ Mia said at length.
‘Involved?’
‘I think you were part of the planning.’
‘What are you talking about, Mia?’
They were interrupted by a timid Gabriel Mørk, who popped his head around the door to the terrace.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but …’
‘What do you want?’ Munch barked at him.
‘Oh, it’s just … Mia, I found, well, you know, the information you asked for earlier today. What do you want me to do with it?’
‘I want you to give all the names to Kim and Ludvig and get them to cross-reference them with the Hønefoss case. I have a hunch we might find something there.’
‘Will do,’ the young lad said, and quickly closed the door without ever once looking at Munch.
‘Just what did you mean when you said that I was part of the planning?’
‘I think’ – Mia nodded pensively – ‘that this is about you.’
‘About me?’
Mia nodded again.
‘I think so.’
They were interrupted once more, this time by an agitated Anette Goli, who didn’t even bother knocking.
‘You have to come right now,’ she said to Munch.
‘What is it?’
‘We have a breakthrough. We’ve just had a call from a lawyer …’
She looked at a Post-it note in her hand.
‘… his name is Livold. He represents Aftenposten. They’ve been contacted by the killer.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Munch said. He got up and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When?’
‘Several times. I believe. Some days ago. Most recently, lunchtime today.’
‘And they ring us now?’ Munch was fuming. ‘Now? Morons.’
‘They’ve clearly spent a day or two taking legal advice.’
‘Bloody fools, where are they?’
‘Postgirobygget. They’re waiting for us now. I have a car downstairs.’
Munch turned to Mia. ‘Are you coming?’
Mia shook her head. ‘I’m off to see Benjamin Bache.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He gave her a strange look. ‘We’ll have to do this later, but soon. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ll meet you at Justisen afterwards,’ Mia said.
‘Fine,’ Munch said, and half ran after Anette out of the office.
Chapter 44
Benjamin Bache was sitting on the steps outside Nationaltheatret when Mia arrived. He seemed restless; he checked his watch, played with his phone, lit a cigarette, drummed his fingers on his thigh, glanced around as if he was nervous that someone might notice him. It wasn’t the smartest place to hang around if you didn’t want to be seen, Mia thought, and stopped behind the statue of Henrik Ibsen so she could spend some time observing him.
She had seen him somewhere before, but it took a while before she could place him. Not in Se og Hør – she never read that, she couldn’t even be bothered to flick through such magazines when she was at the dentist’s. Not that she had anything against them, it was just that their features held very little interest for her. The press had turned its attention to her when the storm raging around her was at its worst, but she had refused them all. ‘The truth about Mia Krüger’ was pretty much how the journalist had put it when he called her. Could such people even be called journalists? How did it work? Were you a journalist if you wrote about people’s breasts and where they spent their holidays? Surely there had to be some sort of professional standard? She had declined politely, even though he had offered her ‘a great holiday in the sun for you and your boyfriend – are you seeing anyone right now?’ Mia chuckled to herself and took a bite of the apple she had bought from the Narvesen kiosk further up the street. A holiday in the sun, seriously. Was that the best they could do? Was that their best offer? In return for which she would lay bare her private life? A holiday in the sun?
Benjamin Bache sat with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and one eye narrowed while he tapped the screen on his phone. He put it in his pocket, rolled the cigarette between his fingers, went back to drumming his thigh then suddenly took out the phone again and pressed the screen once more. That was when it came back to her. A scene from a film at the Contemplation by the Sea Festival. He had been playing a police officer. He was supposed to be her – or rather, not her, but possibly Kim or Curry, a male detective who was not the boss but a member of a unit. He had seemed uncomfortable in the role. Mia took a last bite of the apple, tossed the core into a waste bin and walked up to the steps.
Benjamin Bache rose when he saw her and came towards her with a broad smile on his face.
‘Hi, Mia, great to see you,’ he said, and offered her a firm handshake.
‘Hello,’ Mia said, somewhat surprised that he acted as if he knew her.
Perhaps tha
t was what they did in his circles. Those of us who appear on TV and feature in the newspapers are in the same boat, we’re a community and we stick together. It was so not Mia’s way of doing things, but she decided to ignore it.
‘I’ve booked us a table at Theatercaféen, is that all right?’ Benjamin said, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘Fine.’ Mia smiled. ‘But I don’t think it’ll take that long.’
‘Indulge me.’ Benjamin winked at her and punched her arm gently. ‘I need food. I’ve been rehearsing all day, and now I need to go and do some children’s theatre before more rehearsals tonight.’
‘Sure.’ Mia nodded. ‘I’m not hungry, but I can watch you eat.’
‘Sounds great.’ Benjamin smiled and gestured for her to follow him across the street.
She was not surprised to discover that Benjamin Bache was on first-name terms with the waitress at Theatercaféen and chatted with her all the way to the table he had reserved by the window. He even introduced her to Mia. The girl was clearly embarrassed at having to shake Mia’s hand and introduce herself, and again Mia had to smile. Everyone was so chummy. It was a form of manipulation, she knew that, but she couldn’t work out if Benjamin Bache was bright enough to realize it. Perhaps that was just how things were done in his line of work. Everything was personal, intimate: we know each other, we’re on the same team, cast me, I can play this part.
He was a huge flirt, and no mistake. Mia could only hope that Susanne had not been dumb enough to get involved with a guy like him. That she had not shed tears over him. No, he was unlikely to be the one. Susanne preferred older men. Men who could take care of her. Not young men. Though Mia was quite sure that Benjamin Bache could play the strong, caring type if he had to. Now, he was playing the part of … well, what would she call it? The innocent young lad?
