by Samuel Bjork
It was not until then that Marion discovered that she wasn’t wearing her own clothes. How very strange. Hadn’t she had been wearing her light-blue nightdress earlier? The one with the tear in it which her mother wanted to throw out but Marion refused to let her; she liked putting her finger through the hole, feeling the soft fabric around her finger – it made it easier for her to fall asleep now that she had stopped sucking her thumb. She had done really well, stopping that. It had been very hard to begin with, she had missed the thumb terribly, had lied to her parents a few times and sucked it after all. But then Christian at nursery had told her only babies suck their thumb, and that had made her stop. Because she was no longer a baby. After all, babies couldn’t swim, could they? Indeed, could any of the others swim? Oh no, they couldn’t. But perhaps that wasn’t surprising, because none of them spent as much time in Tøyenbadet Swimming Pool as she and her mother did; she had certainly never seen anyone she knew there. She looked down herself and almost had to laugh. She looked as if she was going to a fancy-dress party. They had had a fancy-dress party at nursery. She had wanted to dress up as Frankie Stein, but her mother hadn’t let her so she had gone as a cowboy instead. Her second choice had been a princess, but it seemed to be important to her mother that girls didn’t just do girl things; she certainly talked to Daddy about it a great deal. About the washing-up and the hoovering and the lid on the toilet seat; it would appear to be very important. So she had gone as a cowboy with a gun and moustache and everything. It had been fine. Not perfect, but fine. Now she was wearing a big, old-fashioned dress, which made it hard to move about as it was rather unwieldy. Then she discovered the dolls on the shelf. There were five dolls sitting up there, dangling their feet. Not new dolls, not cool ones like DracuLaura, but old-fashioned ones with hard, white faces, the kind of dolls her grandmother had up in the attic. One of them was even wearing the same dress as her. A bright-white dress with all sorts of bits – lace, or whatever it was called. Marion climbed up on her bed and took down the doll. It had a sign around its neck. Marion knew what the sign said. It said ‘Marion’. Her name. She recognized her own name. She knew how to read and write it. It was on her peg at nursery where she hung up her coat. She looked up at the other dolls, which were also wearing dresses and had signs around their necks. She couldn’t read any of the names – oh yes, Johanne, she knew that one; a girl at her nursery was called that. Her peg was right next to Marion’s.
‘Mum?’ Marion said, a little louder this time.
There was still no reply. Perhaps she had gone to the loo? Marion realized that she needed the loo herself. Now where was the loo in this place? She walked up to what could be a door, grooves in the wall but without a handle, and ran her tiny fingers along the grooves, but couldn’t open it.
‘Mum?’
She really needed the loo now, she really did. How strange that the girl who lived here had a sign with her name on. Perhaps she was really nice. Perhaps she had known that Marion would be staying here for a while and maybe she had made the sign to say that it was fine for her to borrow her room, that she was welcome, like it said on their neighbours’ doormat, ‘Welcome’. I welcome you, I live here. Go ahead, do some drawing and learn the alphabet if you like.
She was close to bursting now.
‘Mummy?’ she called out at the top of her voice.
Her voice flew around the room and slammed back into her ears.
No, she could hold it no longer.
Suddenly, something happened to the wall. A buzzing noise and some squeaking. Then it fell silent again, only for the sound to resume, coming closer and closer, almost as if someone was banging two saucepan lids together. They had done that at nursery when they had made an orchestra out of the things they already had.
Marion kept staring at the wall where the noise was coming from. Now she could see a handle on the wall. She reached out and grabbed it. It was a hatch which opened. Marion pulled open the hatch and jumped when she saw what was behind it. She got goose pimples all over. Inside the hatch was a small monkey. A wind-up toy that banged two metal discs together to make a noise. There was a note with the monkey. She waited until the monkey had stopped moving before she stuck in her hand and quickly snatched the note.
It had letters on it. Some repeated more than once. E. She knew that one. A. She knew that one as well, they were in Elsa’s name, she worked at nursery. And O. She definitely knew that one. She really needed a wee now. She pressed her legs together and tried to read the note.
Peek-a-boo
She had no idea what it meant.
‘Mum! I need a weeeee!’
She shouted louder, but there was still no reply. She couldn’t hold it any more. She lifted up the cumbersome dress. She was wearing strange underpants, really big ones. She looked around the room. There, under the desk. She pulled down the big pants as quickly as she could and peed into the waste basket.
Chapter 67
Mia Krüger parked the car and walked the last stretch up to the church. Borre Church. The beautiful white brick building glowed in the sunlight and gave her palpitations. Four funerals in the same church. Three gravestones in the same cemetery. She wasn’t sure that she could handle seeing them again. That was the reason she had been procrastinating. And now someone had been there. Desecrated Sigrid’s gravestone. Forced her to return before she was ready. Mia looked out for the verger, who had promised to meet her, but couldno’t see him anywhere, and so she walked, almost reluctantly and with heavy footsteps, towards the graves.
She had stopped on her drive here. Bought flowers. She didn’t feel that she could turn up with nothing. The scent of the flowers made her nauseous. Flowers. A house filled with flowers. Friends and neighbours paying their respects. It was all she had left. Three gravestones and a house filled with flowers. She had sold the houses. Both her parents’ and her grandmother’s. Two nice white houses in the centre of Åsgårdstrand, not far from where Edvard Munch had lived. Her family inheritance. But she couldn’t cope with it. She didn’t want them. All she wanted was to forget. She passed a tap with a green watering can next to it. She felt a little ashamed now. Three stones. Four members of her family. Sigrid, her grandmother and her parents. All of her family was here, and she had not even bothered tending to their graves.
Sigrid Krüger
Sister, friend and daughter
Born 11 November 1979. Died 18 April 2002.
Much loved. Deeply missed.
It was exactly as the verger had said. Someone had sprayed over Sigrid’s name. Written hers instead.
Then she couldn’t take any more. She dropped the green watering can, slumped on to her knees and started to sob. Everything came out now, all the things she had pent up inside. She hadn’t cried for a long time, she’d been afraid to give way to such extreme grief. She stayed on the ground while the tears poured down her cheeks.
Come to me, Mia, come.
Sigrid. Lovely, beautiful, darling, Sigrid. What difference did it make that Mia had shot some junkie loser? Nothing. It made no difference at all. It had only triggered more tragedy. More grieving relatives. More darkness. She had never meant to. She had never meant to shoot him. She had really never meant to shoot. She should be punished. She didn’t deserve to live. She could feel it now. She deserved to die. All these years she had been weighed down by the guilt of the survivor, only she had never managed to put it into words, but it came to her now. She was guilty. Guilty of being alive. She should be with her family. That was where she belonged. With Sigrid. Not here on this bloody planet, where evil and selfishness had the upper hand; there was no point in fighting it any longer, trying to understand, trying to do good. The world was a rubbish heap. People were rotten to the core. She wanted nothing more to do with it.
Someone had written her name on the gravestone. Was someone coming after her? Wanting her dead? She had enemies, of course she did, no police officerswith her reputation got through their career without making some, but she could�
�ot think of anyone in particular. It was unpleasant to see her name on the gravestone, but the feeling of rage because someone had desecrated Sigrid’s final place of rest was much worse.
She muttered curses at the unknown attacker, got up and dried her tears. Cleared away the leaves and twigs, put the flowers in the vase and continued tidying the graves. She dug her fingers into the soil, turning it over so that it would look fresher. It was nicer this way. Went back to where she had fetched the watering can and found a rake. Took off her leather jacket and her jumper. Dipped the sleeve of her jumper in the water from the watering can and tried to scrub off her own name from the gravestone. The spray paint refused to budge. She had to talk to someone about it, get it removed as quickly as possible. She hated it being there, mocking her. Mocking both of them. She raked away the last remains of dead foliage while she waited for the verger. She should have come earlier. This was far too late. She mumbled, ‘Sorry, Sigrid, forgive me,’ through pressed lips, trying to hold back a fresh stream of tears.
There was a small yellow plastic container behind the vase. The kind you would find inside a Kinder Egg. She bent down and picked up, took it to the nearest bin and dumped it. She was walking back towards the grave when she stopped in her tracks.
Could it be?
No, it was impossible.
She spun around, went back to the bin and retrieved the yellow container. She twisted it open.
There was a note inside.
Mia’s hands shook as she unfurled the note.
Peek-a-boo, Mia. Clever girl. But you’re not as clever as you think you are. You think this is the real grave, but it isn’t. Can you see me, Mia? Can you see me now?
Mia Krüger ran as fast as she could down to her car to find her mobile. She had dozens of missed calls but decided to ignore all of them. She wiped the tears from her eyes and rang Munch.
Chapter 68
Ludvig Grønlie stepped out on Munch’s smoking terrace to get a bit of fresh air. He let out a small sigh and stretched his body. He was tired, but he wasn’t going to complain. Other members of the unit had worked almost twice as many hours as he had recently. Ludvig Grønlie was coming up for sixty and, although no one had said it out loud, it was in the air. Long and loyal service. No one would reproach him if he didn’t work twenty-three hours a day any more. But it was not only the physical pressure that took its toll; the mental exertion was worse. Never any peace, always something that needed doing. As long as a serial killer was at large, none of them could truly rest.
His mobile rang. He recognized the name on the display and answered the call.
‘Grønlie speaking,’ Ludvig said, stretching again.
‘Hello, Ludvig, it’s Kjell.’
‘Hi, Kjell, did you find something?’
Kjell Martinssen was one of Ludvig’s old colleagues. They had worked together in Oslo for years but, in contrast to Munch, Martinssen had chosen to be demoted. No, that was unfair: he had made the decision to take it easy. He had met a woman. Requested a transfer to Ringerike Police. His old colleague had made a wise move. He sounded relaxed and happy.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.’
‘A support group for childless women?’
‘Yes,’ his colleague said. ‘Only they call it talking therapy. Heidi does quite a lot of work for Ringerike Volunteer Service, so she pointed me in the right direction.’
Heidi was the woman who had made Martinssen leave the city. The thought had sometimes crossed Ludvig’s mind. Say goodbye to the stress in the capital and find himself a job in a small town. It had never happened and now his retirement was only a few years away.
‘It was active from 2005 to 2007 – that was the timeframe you were asking about, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s correct,’ Ludvig nodded. ‘Do you have a list of names?’
‘I can do better than that – I can get you a picture of every member as well as their names and addresses.’
‘Good work, Kjell, good work,’ Ludvig said, returning to his desk. ‘Will you be faxing it over?’
He regretted his words immediately.
‘Fax it, Ludvig?’ his colleague chuckled. ‘Don’t you have email?’
‘Email me. I meant, email me.’
‘I’ll get someone to scan it and send it to you as soon as it’s ready.’
‘Sounds great, Kjell. Great job.’
‘Do you think you’ll get him?’ His colleague sounded more serious now. ‘People are talking up here. People worry.’
‘We’ll get her,’ Ludvig said, then wondered if perhaps he had given something away.
‘Her? Stoltz? The one whose photo you sent us? Who is wanted for questioning?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ Ludvig said, an idea coming into his head. ‘Is she in any of your pictures?’
‘Might be. I haven’t seen them yet. Heidi had to go down to the Volunteer Service Bureau to pick them up. She’s on her way here now. Hey, Rune, is our scanner working?’
The latter was shouted out into the room at the other end of the phone. His colleague got a positive response back.
‘If Heidi is right and she finds it, you’ll have it today, OK?’
‘Excellent,’ Ludvig said.
He had just finished the call when Gabriel Mørk popped his head into the room.
‘Have you heard anything from Munch or Mia?’
‘I spoke to Munch not long ago, but Mia isn’t answering her phone. Why?’
‘I just wanted to let her know that I think we’ll have the movie sorted sometime today. I’ve sent it to a mate of mine who knows how to clean up noise.’
‘Great,’ Ludvig said, and suddenly remembered what Munch had asked him. ‘You don’t happen to need some fresh air, do you?’
‘Why?’
‘Munch’s daughter needs some stuff, she’s up in that flat. Could you deal with it?’
‘All right,’ the young man said. ‘What does she need?’
‘Hang on,’ Ludvig said, checking his phone for the list Munch had sent him.
Chapter 69
Emilie Isaksen couldn’t believe her eyes when she stepped inside the small house. The hallway was dark and so full of junk she had trouble navigating it. The rest of the house wasn’t much better. Rotting food scraps, ashtrays, bags of rubbish no one had disposed of. Emilie just about managed not to pinch her nose. Even so, she tried putting on a brave face. She didn’t want to expose the little boy to more than he had already been through. All alone for a whole week in this dump of a home, without food or anyone to look after him. Emilie Isaksen was outraged, but she managed a smile.
‘Would you like to see our secret hiding place?’ Torben asked her.
He seemed overjoyed to have a visitor. He had seemed almost startled when he had opened the door to her, scared and with large, tearful eyes, but now he was starting to liven up.
‘Yes, please.’ Emilie smiled and followed the little boy up the stairs to the first floor.
The first floor was just as bad as the ground floor. Emilie struggled to make sense of it all. It was almost too much for her. Poverty was one thing, but this? It wasn’t until they reached what was clearly the two boys’ bedroom that the house began to resemble a home. It smelled clean inside and the room was tidy and light.
‘We hide things inside the mattress in case the baddies come,’ Torben explained, and knelt down in front of the bed.
He unzipped the thin mattress and pulled it apart so that Emilie could see it.
‘Is that the note from Tobias?’ Emilie pointed at it.
‘Yes.’ Torben nodded eagerly.
‘Please may I see it?’
‘Of course.’
He stuck a filthy hand into the secret hiding place and gave her the note.
I’m going to spy on the Christian girls, I will be back soon. Tobias.
‘Do you know when he wrote it?’
The little boy thought hard.
‘No. But it must have been before I came hom
e, because it was here when I got back.’
Emilie couldn’t help laughing.
‘I’m sure you’re right. So when did you get back?’
‘After the football match.’
‘Which football match was that? Do you remember?
‘Liverpool against Norwich. I watched it at my friend Clas’s house. Yhey get the football on their telly, not just the Norwegian Cup Final, but all kinds of games. Clas and I support Liverpool. They won.’
‘Would that have been last Saturday?’
‘Probably, I guess,’ Torben nodded, scratching his hair.
The boy was covered in grime, and he didn’t smell too good either. He needed a bath, clean clothes, food, fresh bedlinen. Today was Friday. The boy had been home at home alone since last Saturday evening. Emilie sat on the floor in the boys’ bedroom somewhat at a loss. What was she going to do? She couldn’t leave the boy here alone. Then again, she couldn’t take him home either. Or could she?
‘Do you want to see what else we keep in the secret hiding place?’ Torben offered.
He acted almost as if he was scared that she would leave him now that she had got what she came for.
‘Yes, I would like to, but listen, Torben?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you saying that Tobias hasn’t been back home since you found the note?’
