Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Epigraph
Prologue
One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Two
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Three
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Four
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Five
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Six
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Seven
Chapter 89
About the Author
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.penguin.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Samuel Bjork 2015
Published by agreement with Ahlander Agency
English translation copyright © Charlotte Barslund 2015
Samuel Bjork has asserted his right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508637
ISBNs 9780857522511 (tpb)
9780857522504 (hb)
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
Your house is on fire and your children are gone.
On 28 August 2006, a girl was born at the maternity unit of Ringerike Hospital in Hønefoss. The baby’s mother, a twenty-five-year-old nursery-school teacher called Katarina Olsen, was a haemophiliac and died during the birth. The midwife and some of the nurses who had been present later described the little girl as exceptionally beautiful. She was quiet and remarkably alert, with a gaze that caused everyone who worked in the ward to develop a very special bond with her. On her admission to the hospital, Katarina Olsen had registered the father as unknown. In the days that followed, the management of Ringerike Hospital, working in collaboration with Ringerike Social Services, tried to track down the child’s maternal grandmother, who lived in Bergen. Unaware that her daughter had been pregnant, she arrived at the hospital only to discover that the newborn baby had disappeared from the maternity ward. Ringerike Police immediately initiated a major hunt for the child, but without result. Two months later, a Swedish nurse called Joachim Wicklund was found dead in his studio flat in the centre of Hønefoss. He had hanged himself. A typed note was found on the floor below Wicklund’s body with the wording: ‘I’m sorry.’
The baby girl was never found.
Walter Henriksen took a seat at the kitchen table and made a desperate attempt to force down a little of the breakfast his wife had prepared for him. Bacon and eggs. Herring, salami and freshly baked bread. A cup of tea brewed from herbs from their very own garden, the one she had always dreamt of having and which was the reason they had bought this house so far from the centre of Oslo, with Østmarka Forest as their nearest neighbour. Here, they could pursue healthy interests. Go for walks in the forest. Grow their own vegetables. Pick wild berries and mushrooms and, not least, offer their dog more freedom; it was a cocker spaniel Walter Henriksen could not stand the sight of, but he loved his wife, which explained why he had agreed to all of the above.
He swallowed a bit of bread with herring and fought a battle with his body, which wanted nothing more than to send the food straight up again. He took a large swig of orange juice and tried to muster a smile, even though his head was throbbing as if someone had clobbered him with a hammer. Last night’s office party had not gone according to plan; yet again, he had failed to stay off the booze.
The news droned along in the background while Walter tried to read his wife’s face. Her mood. Whether she had secretly been awake when he had collapsed into bed in the early hours – when that was, he did not know, but it had been late, far too late; he did remember taking off his clothes, had a vague memory of his wife being asleep: Thank Christ! he had thought before he had passed out on the too-hard mattress she had insisted they bought because she had started having back problems.
Walter coughed lightly, wiped his mouth with the napkin and patted his stomach to show, falsely, that he had enjoyed the meal and was now full.
‘I thought I might take Lady for a walk,’ he said, with what he hoped resembled a smile.
‘Oh, all right, then.’ His wife nodded, somewhat surprised at his offer because, although they rarely discussed it, she was perfectly aware that he cared little for their three-year-old bitch. ‘Perhaps you could go a bit further than just walking her round the house this time?’
He searched for the subtly passive-aggressive tone she often adopted when she was displeased with him, the smile that was not a smile but rather the complete opposite, but he failed to find either; she seemed content, unaware that anything was amiss. Phew! He had got away with it again. And he promised himself that it was the last time. Healthy living for him from now on. No more office parties.
‘No, I was thinking of taking her up to Maridalen, perhaps follow the path down to Lake Dau.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ His wife smiled.
She stroked the dog’s head, kissed its forehead and scratched it behind the ear.
‘You and your daddy are going for walkies, and you’re going to have a lovely time, yes, you are, aren’t you, Lady, my lovely little doggy?’
The walk up to Maridalen followed the pattern it usually did on the rare occasion he took the dog out. Walter Henriksen had never liked dogs, he knew nothing about them; had it been up to him, the world could do without them. He sensed a growing irritation towards the stupid bitch that was straining on the leash, wanting him to walk more quickly. Or stop. Or go in any direction other than the one Walter wanted to go in.
At last he reached the path that took them down to Lake Dau, where he could finally let the dog off the leash. He squatted down on his haunches and attempted to pat the dog’s head, show it some kindness as he undid the leash.
‘There you go, you have yourself a bit of a run-around.’
The dog stared at him with dumb eyes and stuck out its tongue. Walter lit a cigarette and briefly felt something almost resembling love towards the little bitch. After all, it wasn’t the dog’s fault. The dog was all right. His headache was starting to lift; the fresh air was doing him good. He was going to like the dog from now on. Nice doggy. And, strolling around the forest – well, life could be worse. They were almost friends, him and the dog, and would you just look how well-behaved she was now: good doggy. She was no longer on the leash and yet she walked nicely by his side.
And it was at that very moment that the cocker spaniel decided to take off, abandon the path and run wild through the forest. Damn!
‘Lady!’
Walter Henriksen stayed on the path and spent some time calling the dog, but to no avail. Then, muttering curses under his breath, he threw down his cigarette and started scrambling up the hill in the direction where he had last seen it. A few hundred metres up, he stopped in his tracks. The dog was lying very calmly in a small clearing. And that was when he saw the little girl hanging from the tree. Dangling above the ground. With a satchel on her back. And a note around her neck:
I’M TRAVELLING ALONE.
Walter Henriksen fell to his knees and automatically did something he had wanted to do since the moment he first woke up.
He threw up all over himself, then burst into tears.
The screeching seagulls woke Mia Krüger up.
By now, she really should have grown used to them – after all, it was four months since she had bought this house near the mouth of the fjord – but Oslo refused to release its hold on her. Back in her flat in Vogtsgate there had always been noise, from buses, trams, police sirens, ambulances and none of it had ever disturbed her – if anything, it had calmed her down – but she was unable to ignore this cacophony of seagulls. Perhaps it was because everything else around here was so quiet.
She reached out for the alarm clock on the bedside table, but could not read the time. The hands appeared to be missing, lost in a fog somewhere: a quarter past two or twenty-five minutes to nothing. The pills she had taken last night were still working. Calming, sedating, sensorily depriving, do not take with alcohol – yeah, right. After all, she was going to be dead in twelve days, she had ticked off the days on the calendar in the kitchen: twelve blank squares left.
Twelve days. The eighteenth of April.
She sat up in bed, pulled on her Icelandic sweater and shuffled downstairs to the living room.
A colleague had prescribed her the pills. A mandatory ‘friend’, someone whose job it was to help her forget, process events, move on. A police psychologist – or was he a psychiatrist? She guessed he had to be so he could issue prescriptions. Whatever, she had access to anything she wanted. Even in this far-flung corner of the world and even though it required considerable effort. She had to get dressed. Start the outboard motor on the boat. Freeze for the fifteen minutes it took her to sail to Hitra’s main island. Start the car. Stay on the road for forty minutes until she reached Fillan, the nearest town around here – not that it was much of a town – but inside Hjorten Shopping Arcade was where the chemist could be found, and then she could pay a visit to the off-licence in the same location. The prescriptions would be ready and waiting for her; they had been telephoned through from Oslo. Nitrazepam, Diazepam, Lamictal, Citalopram. Some from the psychiatrist, along with some from her GP. They were all so helpful, so kind – Now, don’t take too many, please be careful – but Mia Krüger had absolutely no intention of being careful. She had not moved out here to get better. She had come here to seek oblivion.
Twelve days left. The eighteenth of April.
Mia Krüger took a bottle of Farris mineral water from the fridge, got dressed and walked down to the sea. She sat on a rock, pulled her jacket more tightly around her and got ready to take the first of today’s pills. She shoved a hand into her trouser pocket. A spectrum of colours. Her head still felt groggy and she could not remember which ones she was supposed to be taking today, but it didn’t matter. She washed them down with a swig from the bottle and dangled her feet over the water. She stared at her boots. It made no sense; it was as if they were not her feet but someone else’s, and they seemed far, far away. She shifted her gaze to the sea instead. That made no sense either, but she made herself stick with it and looked across the sea, towards the distant horizon, at the small island out there, a place whose name she did not know.
She had chosen this location at random. Hitra. A small island in Trøndelag, off the west-central coast of Norway. It could have been anywhere, so long as she was left alone. She had let the estate agent decide. Sell my flat and find me something else. He had looked at her and cocked his head as if she were a lunatic or simple-minded, but he wanted his commission so what did he care? The friendly, white smile that had said, Yes, of course he could, did she want a quick sale? Did she have something specific in mind? Professional courtesy, but she had seen his true nature. She felt nauseous just thinking about it. Fake, revolting eyes. She had always been able to see straight through anyone she came near. On that occasion, it had been an estate agent, a slippery eel in a suit and tie, and she had not liked what she saw.
You have to use this talent you have been given. Don’t you see? You need to use it for something. And this is what you’re meant to use it for.
No, she bloody wouldn’t. Not any more. Never again. The thought made her feel strangely calm. Come to think of it, she had been extremely composed ever since she moved here. To Hitra. The estate agent had done a good job. She felt something bordering on gratitude towards him.
Mia Krüger got up from the rock and followed the path back to the house. It was time for the first drink of the day. She did not know what time it was, but it was definitely due now. She had bought expensive alcohol, ordered it specially; it was possibly a contradiction in terms, but why not enjoy something luxurious, given how little time she had left? Why this? Why that? She had stopped sweating the small stuff a long time ago. She opened a bottle of Armagnac Domaine de Pantagnan 1965 Labeyrie and filled the teacup that was sitting unwashed on the kitchen counter three quarters full. An 800-krone Armagnac in a filthy teacup. Look how little it bothers me. Do you think I care? She smiled faintly to herself, found some more pills in her trouser pocket and walked back down to the rocks.
Once again she felt almost grateful to the estate agent with the too-white teeth. If she had to live somewhere, it might as well be here. Fresh air, a sea view, the tranquillity beneath the white clouds. She had no links to Trøndelag, but she had liked this island from the moment she first saw it. They had deer here, countless herds of them, and it had intrigued her: deer belonged elsewhere, in Alaska, in the movies. These beautiful animals which people insisted on hunting. Mia Krüger had learned to shoot at Police College, but she had never liked guns. Guns were not for fun; guns were something you used only when you had no other choice and, even so, not then either. The deer season in Hitra lasted from September to November. One day on her way to the chemist, she had passed a group of young people busy tying a deer to the bed of their truck. It had been in February, outside the hunting season, and for a moment she had contemplated pulling over, taking down their names and reporting them to ensure they got their well-deserved punishment, but she had choked it back and let it go.
Once a police officer, always a police officer?
Not any more. No way.
Twelve days to go. The eighteenth of April.
She drank the last of her Armagnac, rested her head against the rock and closed her eyes.
Holger Munch was sweating as he waited to pick up the rental car in the arrivals hall at Værnes Airport. As usual, the plane had been late, due to fog at Gardermoen Airport, and once again Holger was reminded of Jan Fredrik Wiborg, the civil engineer who had killed himself in Copenhagen after criticizing the expansion plans for Oslo’s main airport, citing unfavourable weather conditions. Even now, eighteen years later, Munch was unable to forget that the body of a fully grown man had been found beneath a hotel-room window too small for him to have got through just before the Airport Bill was due to be debated in the Storting, the Norwegian Parliament. And why had the Danish and Norwegian police been reluctant to investigate his death properly?
Holger Munch abandoned his train of thought as a blonde girl behind the Europcar counter cleared her throat to let him know it was his turn to be served.
‘Munch,’ he said curtly. ‘I believe a car has been booked for me.’
‘Right, so you’re the guy who is getting a new museum in Oslo?’ The girl in the green uniform winked at him.
Munch did not get the joke immediately.
‘Or maybe you’re not the artist?’ She smiled as she cheerfully bashed the keyboard in front of her.
‘Eh? No, not the artist, no,’ Munch said drily. ‘Not even related.’
Or I wouldn’t be standing here, not if I had that inheritance, Munch thought as the girl handed him a form to sign.
Holger Munch hated flying, which explained his bad mood. Not because he feared that the plane might crash – Holger Munch was an amateur mathematician and knew that the risk of the plane crashing was less than that of being struck by lightning twice in the same day – no, Holger Munch hated planes because he could barely fit into the seat.
‘There you are.’ The girl in the green uniform smiled kindly and handed him the keys. ‘A nice big Volvo V70, all paid for, open-ended rental period and mileage, you can return it when and where you like, have a nice trip.’
Big? Was this another one of her jokes, or was she merely trying to reassure him? Here’s a nice big car for you, because you have grown so fat that you can barely see your own feet?
On his way to the multistorey car park, Holger Munch caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the large windows outside the arrivals hall. Perhaps it was about time. Start exercising. Eat a slightly healthier diet. Lose a bit of weight. Lately, he had begun to think along those lines. He no longer had to run down the streets chasing criminals; he had people working for him who could do that, so that was not the reason – no, in the last few weeks, Holger Munch had become rather vain.
Wow, Holger, new jumper? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?
He unlocked the Volvo, placed his mobile in the cradle and turned it on. He put on the seatbelt and was heading towards the centre of Trondheim when his messages started coming through. He heaved a sigh. One hour with his phone turned off and now it was kicking off again. No respite from the world. It was not entirely fair to say that it was the flight alone which had put him in a bad mood. There had been a lot happening recently, both at work and at home. Holger swiped his finger across the smartphone’s screen; it was a model they had told him to buy, it was all about high-tech these days, the twenty-first-century police force, even in Hønefoss, where he had worked for the last eighteen months for Ringerike Police. This was where he had started his career, and now he had come back. Because of the Tryvann incident.
Seven calls from Oslo Police Headquarters at Grønland. Two from his ex-wife. One from his daughter. Two from the care home. Plus countless text messages.
Holger Munch decided to ignore the world for a little longer and turned on the radio. He found NRK Klassisk, opened the window and lit a cigarette. Cigarettes were his only vice – apart from food, obviously – but they were in a different league in terms of attraction. Holger Munch had no intention of ever quitting smoking, no matter how many laws the politicians came up with and how many SMOKING PROHIBITED signs they put up all over Norway, including on the dashboard of his rental car.
He could not think without a cigarette, and there was nothing Holger Munch loved more than thinking. Using his brain. Never mind about the body, as long as his brain worked. They were playing Handel’s ‘Messiah’ on the radio, not Munch’s favourite, but he was OK with it. He was more of a Bach man himself; he liked the mathematics of the music, not all those emotional composers: Wagner’s bellicose Aryan tempo, Ravel’s impressionistic, emotional landscape. Munch listened to classical music precisely to escape these human feelings. If people were mathematical equations, life would be much simpler. He quickly touched his wedding ring and thought about Marianne, his ex-wife. It had been ten years now, and still he could not make himself take it off. She had rung him. Perhaps she was …
No. It would be about the wedding, obviously. She wanted to talk about the wedding. They had a daughter together, Miriam, who was getting married shortly. There were practicalities to discuss. That was all. Holger Munch flicked the cigarette out of the window and lit another one.
I don’t drink coffee, I don’t touch alcohol. Surely I’m allowed a sodding cigarette.
Holger Munch had been drunk only once, at the age of fourteen, on his father’s cherry brandy at their holiday cottage in Larvik, and he had never touched a drop of alcohol since.
The desire was just not there. He didn’t fancy it. It would never cross his mind to do anything which might impair his brain cells. Not in a million years. Now, smoking, on the other hand, and the occasional burger, that was something else again.
He pulled over at a Shell petrol station by Stav Gjestegård and ordered a bacon-burger meal deal, which he ate sitting on a bench overlooking Trondheim Fjord. If his colleagues had been asked to describe Holger Munch in two words, one of them was likely to be ‘nerd’. ‘Clever’ would possibly be the second, or ‘too clever for his own good’. But a nerd, definitely. A fat, amiable nerd who never touched alcohol, loved mathematics, classical music, crossword puzzles and chess. A little dull, perhaps, but an extremely talented investigator. And a fair boss. So what if he never joined his colleagues for a beer after work, or that he had not been on a date since his wife left him for a teacher from Hurum who had eight weeks’ annual holiday and never had to get up in the middle of the night without telling her where he was going. There was no one whose clear-up rate was as high as Holger Munch’s, everyone knew that. Everyone liked Holger Munch. And, even so, he had ended up back in Hønefoss.
I’m not demoting you, I’m reassigning you. The way I see it, you should count yourself lucky that you still have a job.
He had almost quit on the spot that day outside Mikkelson’s office in Grønland, but he had bit his tongue. What else would he do? Work as a security guard?
Holger Munch got back in the car and followed the E6 towards Trondheim. He lit a fresh cigarette and followed the ring road around the city, heading south. The rental car was equipped with a satnav, but he did not turn it on. He knew where he was going.
Mia Krüger.
He thought warmly about his former colleague just as his mobile rang again.
‘Munch speaking.’
‘Where the hell are you?’
It was an agitated Mikkelson, on the verge of a heart attack, as usual; how that man had survived ten years in the boss’s chair down at Grønland was a mystery to most people.
‘I’m in the car. Where the hell are you?’ Munch snapped back.
‘In the car where? Haven’t you got there yet?’
‘No, I haven’t got there yet. I’ve only just landed, I thought you knew that. What do you want?’
‘I just wanted to check that you’re sticking with the plan.’
‘I have the file here, and I intend to deliver it in person, if that’s what you mean.’ Munch sighed. ‘Was it really necessary to send me all the way up here just for this? How about a courier? Or we could have used the local police?’
‘You know exactly why you’re there,’ Mikkelson replied. ‘And this time I want you to do as you’ve been told.’
‘One,’ Munch said as he flicked the cigarette butt out of the window, ‘I owe you nothing. Two, I owe you nothing. Three, it’s your own fault you’re no longer using my brain for its intended purpose, so I suggest you shut up. Do you want to know the cases I’m working on these days? Do you, Mikkelson? Want to know what I’m working on?’
A brief silence followed at the other end. Munch chuckled contentedly to himself.
Mikkelson hated nothing more than having to ask for a favour. Munch knew that Mikkelson was fuming now, and he savoured the fact that his former boss was having to control himself rather than speak his mind.
‘Just do it.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Munch grinned and saluted in the car.
‘Drop the irony, Munch, and call me when you’ve got something.’
‘Will do. Oh, by the way, there was one thing …’
‘What?’ Mikkelson grunted.
‘If she’s in, then so am I. No more Hønefoss for me. And I want our old offices in Mariboesgate. We work away from Police Headquarters. And I want the same team as before.’
There was total silence before the reply came.
‘That’s completely out of the question. It’s never going to happen, Munch. It’s—’
Munch smiled and pressed the red button to end the call before Mikkelson had time to say anything else. He lit another cigarette, turned the radio on again and took the road leading to Orkanger.
Mia Krüger had been dozing on the sofa under a blanket near the fireplace. She had been dreaming about Sigrid and woken up feeling as if her twin sister were still there. With her. Alive. That they were together again, like they always used to be. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Two peas in a pod, born two minutes apart, one blonde, the other dark; so different and yet so alike.
All Mia wanted to do was return to her dream, join Sigrid, but she made herself get up and go to the kitchen. Eat some breakfast. To keep the alcohol down. If she carried on like this, she would die prematurely, and that was completely out of the question.
The eighteenth of April.
Ten days left.
She had to hold out, last another ten days. Mia forced down two pieces of crispbread and considered drinking a glass of milk, but opted for water instead. Two glasses of water and two pills. From her trouser pocket. Didn’t matter which ones. One white and one pale blue today:
Sigrid Krüger
Sister, friend and daughter.
Born 11 November 1979. Died 18 April 2002.
Much loved. Deeply missed.
Mia Krüger returned to the sofa and stayed there until she felt the pills starting to kick in. Numb her. Form a membrane between her and the world. She needed one now. It was almost three weeks since she had last looked at herself, and she could put it off no longer. Time for a shower. The bathroom was on the first floor. She had avoided it for as long as possible, didn’t want to look at herself in the large mirror which the previous owner had put up right inside the door. She had been meaning to find a screwdriver. Remove the damn thing. She felt bad enough as it was, and did not need it confirmed, but she had not had the energy. No energy for anything. Just for the pills. And the alcohol. Liquid Valium in her veins, little smiles in her bloodstream, lovely protection against all the barbs that had been swimming around inside her for so long. She steeled herself and walked up the stairs. She opened the door to the bathroom and almost went into shock when she saw the figure in the mirror. It wasn’t her. It was someone else. Mia Krüger had always been slim, but now she looked emaciated. She had always been healthy. Always strong. Now there was practically nothing left of her. She pulled off her jumper and jeans and stood in only her underwear in front of the mirror. Her knickers were sagging. The flesh on her stomach and hips was all gone. Carefully, she ran a hand over her protruding ribs; she could feel them clearly, count them all. She made herself walk right up close to the mirror, caught a glimpse of her own eyes in the rusty, silver surface. People had always remarked on her blue eyes. ‘No one has eyes as Norwegian as yours, Mia,’ someone had said to her once, and she still remembered how proud she had been. ‘Norwegian eyes’: it had sounded so fine. At a time when she wanted to fit in, not be different. Sigrid had always been the prettier; perhaps that explained why it had felt so good? Sparkling blue eyes. Not much of that left now. They looked dead already. Devoid of life and lustre, red where they should be white. She reached down for her trousers, found two more pills in the pocket, stuck her mouth under the tap and swallowed them. Returned to the mirror and tried straightening up her back.
My little Indian, her grandmother used to call her. And she could have been – apart from the blue eyes. An American Indian. Kiowa or Sioux or Apache. Mia had always been fascinated by Indians when she was a child; there had never been any doubt whose side she was on. The cowboys were the baddies, the Indians the goodies. How are you today, Mia Moonbeam? Mia touched her face in the mirror and remembered her grandmother with love. She looked at her long hair. Soft, raven-black hair flowing over her delicate shoulders. She had not had hair this length for a long time. She had begun to wear it short when she started at Police College. She had not gone to a hairdresser’s but cut it herself at home, just grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped it off. To show that she did not care about looking pretty. About showing off. She didn’t wear make-up either. ‘You’re naturally beautiful, my little Indian,’ her grandmother had said one evening when she had plaited Mia’s hair in front of the fireplace back home in Åsgårdstrand. ‘Do you see how beautiful your eyelids are, how fine your long eyelashes? Do you see that nature has already made you up? You don’t have to bother with make-up. We don’t paint ourselves for the boys. They’ll come when the time is right.’ An Indian with Granny. And a Norwegian at school. What could be more perfect? Mia suddenly felt a bit nauseous from the pills; they didn’t just bring her oblivion and well-being. This would happen from time to time because she never bothered checking which pills she mixed together. She supported herself against the wall with one hand until the worst had passed, lifted her gaze once more, forcing herself to stand in front of the mirror a little longer. Look at herself. One final time.
Ten days left.
The eighteenth of April.
She was not particularly interested in what it would be like. Her final moment. If it would hurt. If it would be difficult to let go. She did not believe the stories about your life flashing by in front of your eyes as you died. Or perhaps it was true? It didn’t really matter. The story of Mia Krüger’s life was imprinted on her body. She could see her life in the mirror. An Indian with Norwegian eyes. Long, black hair which she used to cut short but was now cascading past her thin, white shoulders. She tugged her hair behind one ear and studied the scar near her left eye. A 3-centimetre-long cut, a scar that would never fade away completely. She had been interrogating a murder suspect after a young girl from Latvia had been found floating in the River Aker. Mia had failed to pay attention, hadn’t seen the knife; luckily, she had managed to swerve so that it did not blind her. She had worn a patch over her eye for several months afterwards; she had the doctors at Ullevål Hospital to thank that she still had her sight in both eyes. She held up her left hand in front of the mirror and looked at the missing fingertip. Another suspect, a farm outside Moss, mind the dog. The Rottweiler had gone for her throat, but she had raised her hand just in time. She could still feel its teeth around her fingers, how the panic had spread inside her in the few seconds it took before she got the pistol out of her holster and blew the head off the manic dog. She shifted her eyes down to the small butterfly she had had tattooed on her hip, right above her knicker line. She had been a nineteen-year-old girl in Prague, thinking herself a woman of the world. She had met a Spanish guy, a summer fling, they had drunk far too much Becherovka and both woken up with a tattoo. Hers was a small purple, yellow and green butterfly. Mia was tempted to smile. She had considered having it removed several times, embarrassed by the idiocy of her youth, but had never got round to it and, now, it no longer mattered. She stroked the slender silver bracelet on her right wrist. They had been given one each as confirmation presents, Sigrid and her. A charm bracelet with a heart, an anchor and an initial. An M on hers. An S on Sigrid’s. That night, when the party was over and the guests had gone home, they had been sitting in their shared bedroom at home in Åsgårdstrand when Sigrid had suddenly suggested that they swapped.
You take mine and I’ll have yours?
From that day, Mia had never taken the silver bracelet off.
The tablets were making her feel even more dopey; she could barely see herself in the mirror now. Her body was like a ghost; it seemed far away. A scar by her left eye. A little finger missing the two outer joints. A Czech butterfly right above her knicker line. Skinny arms and legs. An Indian with sad, blue, almost dead eyes … and then she couldn’t take any more, she averted her eyes from the mirror, stumbled into the shower cubicle and stood underneath the warm water for so long that it finally turned icy.
She avoided the mirror when she stepped out. Walked naked down to the living room and dried herself in front of the fireplace, where no one had lit a fire. Went into the kitchen and poured herself another drink. Found more pills in a drawer. Chewed them while she got dressed. Even more spaced out now. Clean on the outside and soon, also, on the inside.
Mia put on her knitted beanie and her jacket and left the house. She walked down to the sea. Sat on a rock and rested her eyes on the horizon. Contemplation by the sea. Where had she heard that expression before? At a festival, yes, that was it, a new Norwegian film festival started by celebrities who thought Norwegian films ought to be more action based. Mia Krüger loved films, but could not quite see how Norwegian films had changed for the better just by avoiding scenes of contemplation by the sea. She groaned whenever some poor sod tried to portray a police officer on film: most of the time she had to leave the auditorium out of secondhand embarrassment with the actor who had been given these lines and been told by the director to do this or that; it was quite simply too cringe-making. No more contemplation by the sea. Mia Krüger smiled faintly to herself and took a swig from the bottle she had brought outside with her. If she had not come to Hitra to die, she would have liked to live here.
The eighteenth of April.
It had come to her one day, like a kind of vision, and from then on everything had slotted into place. Sigrid had been found dead on 18 April 2002. In a basement in Tøyen in Oslo, on a rotting mattress, still with the needle in her arm. She had not even had time to undo the strap. The overdose had killed her instantaneously. In ten days, it would be exactly ten years ago. Lovely little, sweet, beautiful Sigrid had died from an overdose of heroin in a filthy basement. Just one week after Mia had picked her up from the rehab clinic in Valdres.
Oh, but she had looked wonderful, Sigrid, after four weeks at the facility. Her cheeks glowing, her smile back. In the car, returning to Oslo, it had been almost like the old days, the two of them laughing and joking like they used to in the garden at home in Åsgårdstrand.
‘You’re Snow White and I’m Sleeping Beauty.’
‘But I want to be Sleeping Beauty! Why do I always have to be Snow White?’
‘Because you have dark hair, Mia.’
‘Oh, is that why?’
‘Yes, that’s why. Haven’t you worked it out yet?’
‘No.’
‘You’re stupid.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Do we have to play Snow White and Sleeping Beauty? We’ll both have to sleep for a hundred years while we wait for a prince to wake us. That’s no fun, why can’t we make up our own game?’
‘Oh, he’ll come one day, just you wait and see, Mia, he’ll come.’
In Sigrid’s case, the prince had been an idiot from Horten. He thought of himself as a musician, even played in some kind of band, which never gave concerts; all they ever did was hang out in the park, where they smoked joints or took speed or got high. He was just another skinny, opinionated loser. Mia Krüger could not bear even to say his name, the mere thought of him made her feel so sick that she had to straighten up and take deep breaths. She followed the path along the rocks, past the boat house, and sat down on the jetty. On the distant shore she could see activity. People doing people things. What time was it now? She shielded her eyes and looked up at the sky. She reckoned twelve, possibly, or maybe one; it looked like it might be, judging by the sun. She took another swig from the bottle, feeling the pills starting to take effect, strip her of her senses, make her indifferent. She dangled her feet over the edge of the jetty and turned her face to the sun.
Markus Skog.
Sigrid had been eighteen, the scrawny idiot twenty-two. He had moved to Oslo, where he had started hanging out at Plata. A few months later, Sigrid had joined him.
Four weeks in rehab. It was not the first time Mia had picked up her sister from a rehab centre, but this time had been different. Sigrid’s motivation had been completely different. Not the usual junkie smile after such a stay, lies and more lies, just itching to get out and shoot up again – no, there had been something in her eyes. She had seemed more determined, almost back to her old self.
Mia had thought so much about her sister over the years that it had almost driven her insane. Why Sigrid? Was it boredom? Because their parents had died? Or just because of some skinny, scrawny idiot? Had it been love?
Their mother could be strict, but she was never particularly harsh. Their father had spoiled them, but surely that could do no harm? Eva and Kyrre Krüger had adopted the twins right after their birth. They had made arrangements with their biological mother in advance; she was young, single, desperate. Did not want to, and could not cope with, looking after two children. For a childless couple, they were a gift from Heaven; the girls were exactly what they had always wanted, their happiness was complete.
Their mother, Eva, taught at Åsgården Primary School. Their father, Kyrre, sold paint and owned the shop Ole Krüger’s Successor in the centre of Horten.
Mia had searched high and low for an explanation, anything which could tell her why Sigrid had ended up a junkie, but she had never found one.
Markus Skog.
It was his fault.
It was just one week after leaving rehab. They had got on so well in her flat in Vogtsgate. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. The two peas were back in their pod. Mia had even taken a couple of days off work, for the first time in God knows how long. Then, one evening, she found a note on the kitchen table:
Have to talk to M.
Back soon. S.
Mia Krüger got up from the edge of the jetty and padded back to the house. She was already starting to sway. It was time for some more pills. And another drink.
Holger Munch was fed up with driving and decided to take a break. He spotted a lay-by, pulled over and got out to stretch his legs. He did not have much further to go – he was only a few kilometres from the Hitra Tunnel – but he was in no hurry. The man who would be taking him to the island in his boat could not do it until after two o’clock, for some reason; Holger Munch had not had the energy to ask why. He had spoken to the local police officer, who did not seem particularly bright. Not that he was prejudiced against regional police officers, but Holger had been used to another pace in Oslo. Not these days, for obvious reasons: you would be hard pressed to claim that the pace at Ringerike Police was fast moving. Munch swore softly under his breath and cursed Mikkelson, but regretted it immediately. It was not Mikkelson’s fault. There had been an investigation afterwards and there had to be some repercussions – he knew that only too well – but surely there were limits.
Munch took a seat on a bench and lit a cigarette. Spring had come early to Trøndelag this year. There were green leaves on the trees in several places and the snow had almost melted away. Not that he knew very much about when spring usually came to Trøndelag, but he had heard them talk about it on the local radio. He had taken a break from the music to listen to the news. He wondered if they had managed to keep it out of the media, or if some idiot down at Police Headquarters had leaked the discovery to a news-hungry journalist with deep pockets, but, fortunately, there was nothing. Nothing about the little girl who had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen.
His mobile had been ringing and beeping all the time he had been in the car, but Holger had ignored it. He did not want to make calls or send text messages while driving. He had attended too many accidents where people had gone off the road or crashed into someone due to just one second of distraction. Besides, none of it was urgent. And he savoured this brief moment of freedom. He hated to admit it to himself, but at times it got to him. The work. And family life. He didn’t mind visiting his mother in the care home. He didn’t mind helping his daughter with the preparations for her wedding. And he certainly never minded the hours he spent with Marion, his granddaughter, who had just turned six, but even so, yes, at times it all got too much for him.
He and Marianne. He had never imagined anything else. Even now, ten years after the divorce, he still had the feeling that something inside him was so broken that it could never be fixed.
He shuddered and checked his mobile. Another two unanswered calls from Mikkelson; he knew what they would be about. There was no reason to call back. Another message from Miriam, his daughter; brief and impersonal, as usual. Some calls from Marianne, his ex-wife. Bugger, he had forgotten to call the care home. After all, today was a Wednesday. He should really have done it before he started driving. He found the number, got up and straightened his legs.
‘Høvikveien Care Home, Karen speaking.’
‘Yes, hello, Karen. It’s Holger Munch.’
‘Hi, Holger. How are you?’ The soft voice at the other end almost made Munch blush; he had expected one of the older carers to answer the phone, they usually did.
Wow, Holger, new jumper? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Munch replied. ‘But I’m afraid I’m about to ask you to do me yet another favour.’
‘Go on, then, ask away, Holger.’ The woman on the telephone laughed.
They had had a nodding acquaintance for some years. Karen was one of the carers at the home, where his mother had initially refused to live, but where now she appeared to have settled down.
‘It’s Wednesday again.’ Munch heaved a sigh.
‘And you won’t be able to make it?’
‘No, sadly not,’ he replied. ‘I’m out of town.’
‘I understand,’ Karen said, chuckling. ‘I’ll see if somebody here can give her a lift. If not, I’ll order her a cab.’
‘I’ll pay for it, of course,’ Munch quickly interjected.
‘No problem.’
‘Thank you, Karen.’
‘Don’t mention it, Holger. You’ll manage next Wednesday, I expect?’
‘Oh, I will.’
‘Great. Perhaps we’ll see each other then?’
‘That’s very likely.’ Munch coughed. ‘Thank you so much and, well, give her my best.’
‘Will do.’
Munch ended the call and returned to the bench.
Why don’t you ask her out? Where’s the harm? A cup of coffee? A trip to the cinema?
He dismissed the idea just as an email pinged to announce its arrival on his mobile. He had been dead against having one, these new-fangled mobiles where everything was gathered in one place – how would he ever get a moment’s peace? Still, right now it suited him just fine. He smiled as he opened the email and read another challenge from Juri, a man from Belarus he had met on the Net some years ago. Nerds the world over gathered on Math2.org’s message board. Juri was a sixty-something-year-old professor from Minsk. Munch would not go so far as to call him a friend – after all, they had never met in real life – but they had exchanged email addresses and were in contact from time to time. They discussed chess and, every now and then, they would challenge each other with brainteasers, as was the case now.
Water flows into a tank. The volume of water doubles every minute. The tank is full in one hour. How long does it take for the tank to be half full? J.
Munch lit another cigarette and pondered the question for a while before he found the answer. Ha-ha. He liked Juri. He had even considered going to visit him one day – why not? He had never been to Russia – why not meet up with people you had got to know on the Internet? He had made several acquaintances in this way: mrmichigan40 from the US, margrete_08 from Sweden, Birrrdman from South Africa. Chess and mathematics nerds but, more importantly, people like him, so yes – why not? Organize a trip, make new friends – surely that would be all right? He wasn’t that old, was he? And when was the last time he travelled anywhere? He caught a glimpse of his own reflection on the screen of his mobile and put it down on the bench next to him.
Fifty-four. He didn’t think that number could be quite right. He felt much older. He had aged ten years the day Marianne had told him about the teacher from Hurum. He had tried to stay calm. He should have seen it coming. His long days at work and his general absent-mindedness. Away with the fairies, even on the rare occasions he was at home. Ultimately, there would be a price to pay, he’d known, but now, and like this? She had been completely relaxed, as if she had rehearsed her speech several times. They had met on a course. Stayed in touch ever since. They had developed feelings for one another. They had met a few times, in secret, but she no longer wanted to live a dishonest life. In the end, he had failed to keep his cool. He, who had never raised a hand to anyone. He had howled and hurled his dinner plate at the wall. Shouted and chased her around the house. He was still ashamed of his behaviour. Miriam had come running down from her room, crying. Fifteen years old then, now twenty-five and about to get married. Fifteen years, and taking her mother’s side. Not surprising, really. How much time had he ever spent at home being available to them during all those years?
He felt reluctant to reply to Miriam’s message: it was so short and cold, symbolic of how their relationship was and had been, it only piled on the pressure – as if the folder lying in the hire car were not enough.
Could you add a few thousand extra? We have decided to invite cousins. M.
The wedding. No problem, he texted, and added a smiley face, but deleted it. He saw the message go out and thought about his granddaughter, Marion. Miriam had told him to his face soon after Marion’s birth that she was not at all certain that he deserved to have any contact with the baby. Fortunately, she had changed her mind. Now, these were his most treasured moments. His hours with lovely, totally straightforward Marion, a bright light in his daily life, which, to be completely honest, had been fairly dark since his transfer back to Hønefoss.