I'm Travelling Alone

Chapter 1

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 dreamed 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. If 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.

Chapter 2

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, the 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 which was sitting unwashed on the kitchen counter three quarters full. An 800 kroner 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.

Chapter 3

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 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 dryly. ‘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 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 three words, two of them were likely to be ‘nerd’. ‘Clever’ would possibly be the third, 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 Ö’

‘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.

Chapter 4

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 as long as this for a long time. She had started 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 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.

Chapter 5

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 Russian 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 calling 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.

He had let Marianne keep the house after the divorce. It had seemed like the right thing to do. Otherwise, Miriam would have had to move away from her friends and her school and her handball. He had bought a small flat in Bislett, suitably near to them and suitably far from his work. He had kept the flat after his transfer and was now renting a studio flat in Ringveien, not far from Hønefoss Police Station. His belongings were still in cardboard boxes. He had not taken very much – he had expected a quick return to the capital once the public outcry had died down – but now, almost two years later, he was still there, and he had yet to unpack, as neither place felt like home.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are people much worse off than you.

Munch stubbed out the cigarette and thought about the file in his car. A six-year-old girl had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random dog-walker. He had not come across a case like this for a long time. No wonder they were sweating down at Grønland.

He picked up his mobile and replied to Juri’s email.

59 minutes

HM

Munch was loath to admit it to himself, but the file on the passenger seat sent shivers down his spine. He started the car, pulled out on to the main road and continued his journey east to Hitra.

Chapter 6

The man with the eagle tattoo on his neck had put on a roll-neck jumper for the occasion. He used to really like Oslo Central Station – the crowds made it the perfect place for a man of his profession – but these days there were so many cameras that practically nowhere was safe. He had started arranging his meetings and transactions at other venues long ago, at cinemas and kebabs shops, places where you were less likely to be identified, should your business lead to a major investigation. It rarely did – he did not operate on such a large scale any more – but still, better safe than sorry.

The man with the eagle tattoo pulled the beanie deep down over his head and entered the station concourse. He had not chosen the venue, but the amount offered was so high that he was happy to obey orders. He had no idea how the client had found him, but one day he had received an MMS with a photo, an assignment and a sum of money. And he had done what he always did, replied ‘OK’ without asking any questions. It was a strange assignment, no doubt about it, he had never done anything like it, but over the years he had learned never to probe, just to do the job and collect the money. It was what you needed to do in order to survive and retain your credibility out there in the shadowy world. Though the number of assignments was falling, as was how much he was paid, every now and again something big would fall into his lap. Like this one. A bizarre request – yes, quite extraordinary in fact – but well paid, and that was exactly what he was about to do now, pick up his pay cheque.

Suit jacket, smart trousers, shiny shoes, business briefcase, roll-neck jumper. Even a pair of fake spectacles. The man with the eagle tattoo looked like the exact opposite of what he was, and that was precisely the intention. In his profession, you never knew when the police might order a complete review of all CCTV recordings, so it was best to blend in. He looked like an accountant or any other kind of businessman and, though you might not think so, the man with the eagle tattoo was rather vain. You would never mistake him for a well-groomed, privileged member of the elite; he liked his rough appearance, his tattoos and the leather jacket. These revolting trousers rubbed his groin, and he felt like a prat in the tight jacket and the stupid shiny brown shoes. Never mind, just grin and bear it. The money that was waiting for him in one of the deposit boxes made it worth it. Totally worth it. He had been skint for a while and needed the cash. He was going to party now. He smiled faintly under the unfamiliar glasses and walked calmly, but vigilantly, through the station building.

The first message had arrived about a year ago, and more had followed. An MMS with a photograph and an amount. The first time, he had taken it to be some kind of joke, the request had been so unusual and bizarre, but he had carried it out nevertheless. And been paid. As he was the next time. And the time after that. Then he had stopped caring what it was about.

He stopped at the Narvesen kiosk and bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. A completely ordinary man commuting home after a day at the office. Nothing unusual about this accountant. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and continued down towards the deposit boxes. Stopped outside the entrance to the boxes and sent the text message.

I’m here.

He waited only a short while for the reply. As usual, it came promptly. The number of the safety-deposit box and the code to open it beeped as it whizzed into his mobile. He glanced around a few times before he walked along the deposit boxes to find the right one. He would have to grant Oslo Central Station at least one thing: the days of keys changing hands in backstreets and alleyways were over. Now all you needed was a code. The man with the eagle tattoo entered the digits on the keypad and heard a click as the box opened. As usual, the familiar brown envelope was lying inside it. He removed the envelope from the box and tried not to look around, drawing as little attention to himself as possible, in view of all the cameras present, before he opened the briefcase and deftly slipped the envelope inside it. There was a smile at the corner of his mouth as he gauged that it was much fatter this time. His final assignment. Time to settle his accounts. He left the safety-deposit boxes, walked up the steps, continued through the station, entered a Burger King and locked himself in a cubicle in the Gents. He opened the briefcase and took out the envelope; he could hardly contain himself. He grinned from ear to ear when he saw the contents. There was more than just the agreed sum of money, in 200 kroner notes as he always requested; there was also a small bag of white powder. The man with the eagle tattoo opened the transparent plastic bag, carefully tasted the contents, and the smile on his face broadened even further. He had no idea who his client was, but there was clearly nothing wrong with his contacts or his information. Those who knew him well were also aware of his great love for this substance.

He took out his mobile and sent his usual reply.

OK. Thanks.

He did not normally say thank you – this was pure business, nothing personal – but he could not help it this time, what with the bonus and all. It took a few seconds before the reply came.

Have fun.

The man with the eagle tattoo smiled as he returned the envelope and the bag to the briefcase and made his way back to the station concourse.

Chapter 7

Mia Krüger was sitting on a rock with her white knitted pom-pom beanie pulled down over her long, raven-black hair and a blanket wrapped around her. It was noon. At the chemist, she had overheard someone saying that spring had come early to Trøndelag this year, but she was still cold and had not felt much of this alleged warmth.

Six days left now. Six blank squares on the calendar in the kitchen, and she could feel that she was looking forward to it.

Death isn’t dangerous.

During these last few days she had grown even more convinced of this truth. The knowledge that she would soon be set free. She found some pills in the pocket of her anorak and washed them down with a bottle of alcohol she had brought outside with her. Mia smiled to herself and looked across the sea. A fishing boat glided past in the horizon. The April sun dyed the clouds golden and the water below the rocks shimmered. She had thought a great deal in the last few days. About her loved ones or, rather, the people who had been her loved ones. She was the only one left, and she was not planning on being around for long either. In this world. In this reality, as her grandmother used to say. Mia smiled and took a swig from the bottle.

Sigrid had always been everyone’s favourite. Sigrid, with her long, blonde hair. Who was good at school. Who played the flute, who played handball and was everyone’s friend. Mia had not resented the attention Sigrid got. Sigrid was never one to exploit it to her advantage; she never said a bad word about anyone. Sigrid was quite simply fantastic Sigrid, but whenever their grandmother had pulled Mia to one side and told her that she was special, she had felt great.

You’re very special, did you know that? The other children are fine, but you know things, Mia, don’t you? You see the things that other people tend to overlook.

Even though Granny was not her biological grandmother, she had always felt that they had something in common. A bond, a kinship. Perhaps because they looked like each other. Perhaps because she treated Mia more like a friend, an accomplice in being different. Her grandmother had told Mia stories from her life and hadn’t spared her blushes. That she had had many men, and that you should never be scared of them, they were as harmless as little rabbits. And that she could tell fortunes and that there were more realities than this one, so death was nothing to be scared of. It was Christianity, her grandmother had said, that had decided that death was a negative concept so that we would live our lives in fear of their God, believe that death leads to hell or heaven, Christians think it is the end of everything, but do you know something, Mia? Granny isn’t so sure that death is the end. I’m certainly not scared of it.

Back home in Åsgårdstrand, evil tongues had nicknamed her grandmother ‘the witch’, but it had never bothered the old lady. Mia could see exactly what they meant: her grandmother was not like other people, with her coarse, grey hair over her clear, almost blue-black eyes. In the shops, she spoke in a loud voice about the strangest things and would often stay up all night in her garden watching the moon, laughing to herself. She knew things which people back in the Middle Ages would undoubtedly have called witchcraft, and she treated Mia almost like her apprentice.

Mia felt lucky. She had grown up in a stable environment. With a kind mother and a fantastic father, with her grandmother only a few doors away. A grandmother who had taken notice of her, seen who she was, told her she was special.

Fly like the ladybird, Mia. Never forget that.

Her grandmother’s last words on her deathbed, spoken with a wink to her very special friend. Mia raised the bottle towards the clouds.

Death isn’t dangerous.

Six days left.

The pills she’d taken from her anorak made her groggy. Mia Krüger took a few more and leaned back against the rock.

You’re very special, Mia, did you know that?

Perhaps that explained why she had chosen to go to Police College? To do something different? She had thought about this as well these last few days. Why had she applied? She could no longer make the pieces fit together. Time kept shifting. Her brain was out of kilter. Sigrid was no longer blonde, little Sigrid, she was junkie Sigrid now, the nightmare. Their parents had been devastated, withdrawn from the world, from each other, from her. She had moved to Oslo, started, with absolutely no enthusiasm, to study at Blindern University; she hadn’t even been able to summon up the energy to turn up for her exams. Perhaps Police College had chosen her? So that she might rid the world of people like Markus Skog?

Mia rose and staggered down to the jetty. She finished off the bottle and put it in the pocket of her anorak. Found another couple of pills, munched them without washing them down with anything. The seagulls had abandoned her in favour of the fishing boat, and the only sound out here now was the waves lapping gently against the rock.

She had shot him.

Markus Skog.

Twice. In the chest.

It had been a chance encounter; they had been out on another assignment, a girl had disappeared and the special unit had been called in – just sniff around and take a peek at things, as Holger had put it: We don’t have a lot on right now, Mia. I think we should check this one out.

Holger Munch. Mia Krüger thought fondly of her old colleague and sat down on the edge of the jetty with her boots dangling over the edge. The whole incident was bizarre. She had killed another human being, but she didn’t feel bad about it. She felt worse about the consequences. The media outrage and the row down at Grønland. Holger Munch, who had led the unit, who had cherry-picked her from Police College, had been reassigned, the special unit closed down. This had hurt her deeply, and it had cut her to the core that Holger had paid the price for her actions, but the actual killing, strangely enough, no. They had been following a lead that took them to Tryvann, some junkies or hippies – the public always had difficulty in telling the two apart when they rang to complain – anyway, someone had parked a campervan in Tryvann and was partying and making a racket. Holger thought the missing girl might be there. And, indeed, they did come across a young girl, not the girl who was missing, but another one, glazed eyes, a needle in her arm, inside the filthy campervan and, with her, unexpectedly, Markus Skog. And Mia had, as the Independent Police Complaints Commission’s report quite accurately stated, ‘Acted carelessly, with unnecessary use of force’.

Mia shook her head at her own immorality. Holger Munch had stood by her, said that Skog had attacked her first – after all, a knife and an axe were found at the crime scene – but Mia should have known better. She was trained to defend herself without backup against a frenzied junkie brandishing a knife or wielding an axe. She could have shot him in the foot. Or in his arm. But she hadn’t, she had killed him. A moment of hatred, when the rest of the world had simply disappeared. Two shots to the centre of his chest.

She would have gone to prison if it had not been for Holger Munch. She took the empty bottle from her anorak, licked the last few drops and raised it towards the clouds once more. It didn’t matter now. It would all be over soon.

At last.

Six days left.

She lay down, rested her cheek against the coarse, wooden planks that made up the jetty and closed her eyes.

Chapter 8

Tobias Iversen covered his younger brother’s ears so that he would not hear the row coming from downstairs. They tended to kick off at this time, when their mother came home from work and discovered that their stepfather had not done what he was supposed to do. Cook dinner for the boys. Tidy the house a bit. Find himself a job. Tobias did not want his brother to hear them, so he had invented a game.

I’ll cover your ears and you tell me what you can see inside your head, yeah?

‘A red lorry with flames on it.’ Torben smiled and Tobias nodded and smiled back at him. What else?

‘A knight fighting a dragon.’ His brother grinned and Tobias nodded again.

The noise level below increased. Angry voices crept up between the walls and slipped under his skin. Tobias could not handle what would happen next – things being thrown at the walls, the screaming getting louder; perhaps worse – so he decided to take his brother outside. He whispered between his hand and his younger brother’s ear.

‘Why don’t we go outside and hunt some bison?’

His brother smiled and nodded eagerly.

Hunt bison. Run around the forest pretending to be Indians. He would love that. Not many other children lived out here, so Tobias and his brother usually played together, even though Tobias was thirteen and his brother only seven. It was not a good idea to be inside most of the time. Outside was better.

Tobias helped his brother put on his jacket and trainers, then he hummed, sang and stomped hard on the back stairs as they made their way out. As usual, his brother gazed at him with admiration; his big brother always entertained him, making these weird, loud noises. Torben thought it was funny; he loved his big brother very much, loved joining him on all the exciting, strange adventures his brother came up with.

Tobias went to the woodshed, found some string and a knife and told Torben to run ahead without him. They had a secret place in the forest and it was perfectly safe, his brother was free to roam; further in, there was an clearing between the spruces where the two of them had built a hut, a little home away from home.

When they reached the hut, Torben was already settled on the old mattress, had found a comic and was absorbed by the pictures and all these exciting new letters and words which he finally, after a huge effort, both at school and with some help from his big brother, was beginning to grasp.

Tobias took out the knife and chose a suitable willow branch, cut it off at the base and stripped away the bark in the middle, the section that was going to form the handle of the bow. The grip improved when the bark was removed and the wood had time to dry slightly. He bent the willow over his knees, tied the thin rope to each end and, hey presto!, a new bow. He placed it on the ground and went off to find suitable material for arrows. They did not have to be willow, most types of wood would do, except for spruce: the branches were too limp. He returned with straight, narrow branches and started stripping off the bark. Soon four new arrows were lying near the tree stump he was sitting on.

‘Tobias, what does it say here?’

His brother came padding out from the hut with the comic in his hand.

‘Kryptonite,’ Tobias told him.

‘Superman doesn’t like that,’ his younger brother said.

‘You’re right,’ Tobias replied, wiping a bit of snot from his brother’s nose with the sleeve of his jumper.

‘Do you think it’ll be a good one?’

Tobias got up and put an arrow against the string, pulled the bow string as far as he could and let the arrow fly in between the trees.

‘Awesome!’ his brother cried out. ‘Would you make one for me as well, please?’

‘This one is for you,’ Tobias said with a wink.

His brother’s cheeks flushed and his gaze softened. He tightened the bow as hard as he could and managed to get the arrow to go a few metres. He looked at Tobias, who nodded affirmatively – good shot – then he went to fetch the arrow.

‘Why don’t we shoot the Christian girls?’ Torben said when he came back.

‘What do you mean?’ Tobias said, somewhat startled.

‘The Christian girls who live in the forest? Why don’t we shoot them?’

‘We don’t shoot people,’ Tobias said, taking his brother by the arm quite firmly. ‘And how come you know about the Christian girls?’

‘I heard it at school,’ his brother said. ‘That Christian girls live in the forest now and they eat people.’

Tobias chuckled to himself.

‘It’s true there are new people living in the forest.’ He smiled. ‘But they’re not dangerous and they definitely don’t eat people.’

‘So why don’t they go to our school?’ his wide-eyed brother demanded to know. ‘If they live here?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Tobias replied. ‘I think they have their own school.’

His brother’s face turned very serious.

‘I bet that’s really good. And that’s why they don’t want to go to ours.’

‘Probably.’ Tobias winked at him again. ‘So, where do you want to hunt bison today?’ he continued, and ruffled his brother’s hair. ‘Up by Rundvann?’

‘Probably,’ said the younger boy, who wanted to be like his brother. ‘I think so.’

‘Rundvann it is. Please, would you go and get the first arrow I shot? That is, if you think you can find it?’

His brother nodded.

‘I guess I can,’ he said with a sly smile, and raced off in between the trees.

Chapter 9

Holger Munch was not feeling entirely comfortable as he sat in the small motorboat going from Hitra to an even smaller island just beyond it. Not that he was seasick, no, Holger Munch loved being at sea, but he had just spoken to Mikkelson on the phone. Mikkelson had sounded very strange, not his usual brusque self at all; he had been almost humble, wishing Munch the best of luck, hoping that he would do his best. Said that it was important that the police worked together as a team now – lots of morale boosting, very unlike Mikkelson, and Munch didn’t like it one bit. Something had quite clearly happened. Something Mikkelson did not want to tell Munch about.

Munch pulled his jacket tighter against the wind and tried to light a cigarette as the boat chugged steadily towards the mouth of the fjord. He did not think that the young man with the dishevelled hair steering the boat was a police officer, but some sort of local volunteer, and the reason he had not been able to take Munch to the island until two o’clock was still unclear, but Munch had not had the energy to find out. He had met him on the quay, asked him if he knew where the island was and the young man with the unruly hair had nodded and pointed. Only fifteen minutes by boat. It was Rigmor’s old place, she had lived there with her son, but then her son had moved to Australia, probably because of a woman, and Rigmor had had no choice but to move to Hitra and her place had been sold, apparently to some girl from East Norway; no one knew much about her, she had been seen her heading to Fillan a couple of times, a pretty girl, about thirty, long, black hair, always wore sunglasses. Was that where he was going? Was it important?

The young man shouted all this over the noise from the engine, but Holger Munch, who had not said a word since greeting him at the quay, stayed silent. He just let the lad talk while, for the third time, he shielded his lighter against the wind with his hand and tried to light the cigarette, again without success.

As they approached the island, the faint nausea he had felt after talking to Mikkelson began to dissipate. He realized he would be seeing her soon. He had missed her. He had last seen her a year ago. At the convalescent home. Or the madhouse, or whatever they called it these days. She had not been herself; he had barely been able to make contact with her. He had tried reaching her a couple of times, by phone and email, but there had been no reply, and when he saw the pretty little island in front of him, he understood why. She didn’t want to be reached. She wanted to be alone.

The motorboat docked at a small jetty and Munch climbed ashore, not as nimbly as he would have done ten years ago, but his fitness level was nowhere near as poor as people’s comments tended to suggest.

‘Do you want me to wait, or will you give me a call when you want taking back?’ said the young man with the messy hair, clearly hoping he would be asked to wait, join in the excitement. Munch had a hunch that not a lot happened out here.

‘I’ll call you,’ Munch said tersely, and raised his hand to his forehead by way of goodbye.

He turned and looked up towards the house. He waited while he listened to the sound of the engine disappear across the sea behind him. It was a pretty place. She had taste, Mia, no doubt about it. She had picked the perfect place to hide. Her own little island close to the mouth of the fjord. From the jetty, a narrow path led up to a small, white, idyllic house. Munch was no expert, but it looked as if the place might have been built in the 1950s, perhaps originally as a summer cabin which had later been turned into all-year accommodation. Mia Krüger. It would be good to see her again.

He remembered the first time he had met her. Shortly after the special investigation unit had been set up, he had had a call from Magnar Yttre, an old colleague and now principal of the Police College. Although he had not spoken to Yttre for years, his old colleague did not waste one second on small talk. ‘I think I’ve found one for you,’ he had announced, sounding almost as proud as a little kid showing his parents a drawing.

‘Hi, Magnar, it’s been a long time. What have you got?’

‘I’ve found one for you. You have to meet her.’

Yttre had spoken so fast that Munch had missed some of the details, but the short version went as follows: during their second year, Police College students underwent a test developed by scientists at the Institute of Psychology at UCLA. The test, which had a technical name Munch missed, consisted of showing the student a photograph of a murder victim, along with several pictures from the crime scene. The students’ task was to free associate based on the photographs, give their response to them and their observations; the test was presented as quite relaxed, almost a game, so that the students would not feel pressured or realize that they were participating in something significant.

‘I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve run this test, but we’ve never seen a result like this. This girl is unique,’ Yttre had declared, still brimming with enthusiasm.

Holger Munch had met her at a café, a casual meeting outside Police Headquarters. Mia Krüger. In her early twenties, in a white jumper and tight black trousers, with dark hair, not very well cut, and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. He had taken to her immediately. It was something about the way she moved and talked. How her eyes reacted to his questions, as if she knew that he was testing her; but she replied politely all the same, with a twinkle in her eye, as if to say, What do you think I am? Dumb or something?

A few weeks later he had picked her up from Police College with Yttre’s blessing; he had been happy to sort out all the paperwork. There was no need for her to stay in school any longer. This girl was already fully qualified.

Munch smiled to himself and started walking towards the house. The front door was ajar, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

‘Hello? Mia?’

He knocked on the door and took a couple of cautious steps inside the hallway. It suddenly struck him that, even though they had worked together for many years and were close friends, he had never been to her home. He began to feel like an intruder and lingered in the hall before he took a few more reluctant steps inside. He knocked on another half-open door and entered the living room. The room was sparsely furnished: a table, an old sofa, some spindle-back chairs, a fireplace in one corner. The overall effect was rather odd, as if it were not a home, merely a place to stay; no photographs, no personal effects anywhere.

Perhaps he had been mistaken? What if she wasn’t here? Perhaps she had just stayed here for a brief period before moving on, hiding somewhere else?

‘Hello? Mia?’

Munch continued into the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief. On the kitchen counter below one of the windows there was a coffee machine, one of those big, complicated ones you saw in coffee bars, rather than in people’s homes. He smiled to himself. Now he was sure he was in the right place. Mia Krüger had few vices, but the one thing she could not do without was good coffee. He had lost count of the number of times she had drunk his coffee at work and scrunched up her nose. ‘How do you drink this dishwater? Doesn’t it make you sick?

Munch walked over to the worktop and touched the shiny machine. It was cold. It had not been used for a while. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could still be nearby. But something felt very wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there. He couldn’t resist the temptation, and started opening cupboards and drawers.

‘Hello? Mia? Where are you?’

Chapter 10

Mia Krüger awoke with a jolt and sat upright in her bed.

Someone was in her house.

She had no idea how she had ended up upstairs – she did not remember getting undressed or going to bed – but that was irrelevant right now. There was someone in the house. She could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Bottles being taken out of a cupboard and put on the floor. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, stuck her hand inside her underwear drawer and pulled out her gun, a small Glock 17. Mia Krüger did not like guns, but she was not an idiot, either. She tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom, opened the window in the passage and crept out on to the small roof. She felt the cold wind against her bare shoulders and suddenly realized that she was wide awake. She had been sound asleep. Dreaming about Sigrid. A field of yellow wheat. They had been running through the field. Sigrid in front of her, her hair bouncing in slow motion.

Come to me, Mia, come.

Mia shook off the last remnants of sleep, tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans, jumped down from the roof and landed, nimble as a cat, in the grass. Who the hell could it be? Out here? In her house? About as far from civilization as it was possible to get? She crept around the corner and glanced quickly through the living-room window. No one there. She continued steadily towards the back door, which also had a small window: no one inside. Carefully, she pushed open the door and waited in the doorway for a few seconds before she tiptoed into the hallway. She positioned herself by the entrance to the living room with her back against the wall and took a deep breath before she entered, still with her pistol held out in front of her.

‘Is that any way to greet an old friend?’

Holger Munch was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the table, smiling at her.

‘You bloody idiot,’ Mia sighed. ‘I could have shot you.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Munch grinned and got up. ‘I’m not much of a target.’

He patted his stomach and laughed briefly. Mia placed the gun on the windowsill and went over to give her old colleague a hug. It was not until then that she realized that she was cold, that she was not wearing any shoes or properly dressed and that the pills from last night had yet to leave her system. Her instinct had taken over. Provided her with strength she did not have. She collapsed on to the sofa and wrapped herself in a rug.

‘Are you OK?’

Mia nodded.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Did I scare you?’

‘A little,’ Mia conceded.

‘Sorry,’ Munch apologized. ‘I’ve made some tea. Do you want some? I would have made coffee, but I have no idea how to work that spaceship of yours.’

Mia smiled. She had not seen her colleague for a long time, but their banter was the same.

‘Tea would be good.’ She smiled.

‘Two seconds.’ Munch smiled, too, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Mia glanced sideways at the thick file lying on the table. She did not have a telephone, Internet or access to the newspapers, but it was not difficult to work out that something had happened in the outside world. Something important. So important that Holger Munch had got on a plane, into a car and then on a boat to talk to her.

‘Do we go straight to business, or do you want to do small talk first?’ Munch smiled again and put the teacup on the table in front of her.

‘No more cases for me, Holger.’

Mia shook her head and sipped her tea.

‘No, I know, I know.’ Munch heaved a sigh as he slumped down on one of the spindle-back chairs. ‘That’s why you’re hiding out here – I get it. Not even a mobile? You’re difficult to track down.’

‘That’s kind of the point,’ Mia said dryly.

‘I get it, I get it.’ Munch heaved another sigh. ‘Do you want me to leave right now?’

‘No, you can stay for a while.’

Suddenly, Mia felt uncertain. In two minds. Up until now, she had felt resolved and determined. She rummaged around in her pocket, but could find no more pills. Not that she wanted some, not with Holger Munch there, but a drink would have been welcome.

‘So what do you think?’ Munch asked, and tilted his head a little.

‘What do I think about what?’

‘Are you going to take a peek at it?’

He nodded towards the file on the table between them.

‘I think I’ll pass,’ she said, tightening the rug around her.

‘OK,’ Munch replied, and took out his mobile.

He entered the number of the young man with the messy hair.

‘Munch speaking. Can you pick me up, please? I’m done out here.’

Mia Krüger shook her head. He had not changed. He knew exactly how to get his way.

‘You’re an idiot.’

Munch covered the microphone with his hand.

‘What did you say?’

‘All right, all right. I’ll take a quick look at it, but that’s it. OK?’

‘Forget about picking me up. I’ll call you later.’

Munch ended the call and edged his chair nearer to the table.

‘So how do we play it?’ he asked, placing his hand on the file.

‘I want a pair of socks and a thick jumper. You’ll find everything in my bedroom. And then I want a drink. There’s a bottle of cognac in the cupboard below the kitchen worktop.’

‘Have you started drinking?’ Munch said, getting up. ‘That’s unlike you?’

‘And if you can keep quiet, that would be great,’ Mia said, and opened the file on the table in front of her.

It contained about twenty-five photographs and a crime-scene report. Mia Krüger spread the photographs across the table.

‘What do you think? First impression?’ Munch called out from the kitchen.

‘I can see why you’ve come,’ Mia said quietly.

Munch returned, put the drink on the floor beside her and disappeared again.

‘Take as long as you need. I’ll fetch anything you want and then I’ll go down and look at the sea, all right?’

Mia did not hear what he said. She had already shut out the world. She took a large gulp of her drink, exhaled deeply and began studying the photographs.

Chapter 11

Munch sat on a rock watching the sun go down on the horizon. He had always thought of Hønefoss as quiet – when he lay in his room at night, there was barely a sound – but it was nothing compared to this. This was true silence. And beauty. Munch had not seen a view like this for a long time. He could see why she had chosen this place. Such calm. And what clean air. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It really was unique. He looked at the time on his mobile. Two hours had passed. It was a long time, but she could have all the time in the world. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps he should just stay out here? Follow her example, throw away his mobile. Ignore the world? Let go completely? No, there was Marion to think about; he could never abandon her. He didn’t care much about anyone else. But then he started to feel guilty. An image of his mother in her wheelchair on her way to her prayer meeting flashed up in his mind. He hoped it had gone well. That was supposed to be his job. Taking her to the chapel every Wednesday. He had no idea why she insisted on going, she had never been very religious in the past; not that it made any difference. The situation made Munch feel uncomfortable, but his mother was old enough to know her own mind.

‘Holger?’

Munch’s train of thought was interrupted by Mia’s voice calling out from the house.

‘Have you finished?’

‘I think so.’

Munch got up quickly, stretched to combat the stiffness and walked briskly back towards the house.

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think we need food,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve heated some soup.’

Munch entered the living room and sat down on the spindle-back chair again. The photographs were no longer scattered across the table but were back inside the folder.

Mia appeared, said nothing, put a bowl of steaming-hot soup on the table in front of him. It was clear that she was distracted; he recognized that look of hers: she was lost in thought and did not want to be disturbed. He ate his soup without saying a word and let her finish hers before coughing softly to rouse her.

‘Pauline Olsen. That’s an old-fashioned name for a six-year-old girl,’ Mia said.

‘She was known as Line,’ Munch said.

‘Eh?’

‘She was named after her maternal grandmother, but she was only ever called Line.’

Mia Krüger looked at him with an expression he could not quite fathom. She was still somewhere deep inside herself.

‘Line Olsen,’ Munch continued. ‘Aged six, due to start school this autumn. Found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random passer-by. No signs of sexual assault. Killed with an overdose of Methohexital. Satchel on her back. It was stuffed full of schoolbooks – not hers; as I said, she had yet to start school. Pencil case, ruler, all the books bound with paper, no fingerprints. Every book is labelled with the name Toni J. W. Smith, rather than the victim’s own, for some reason. Her clothes are clean, freshly ironed; none of them her own, according to her mother. Everything is new.’

‘It’s a doll,’ Mia said.

‘Pardon?’ Munch said.

A glassy-eyed Mia slowly filled her glass; she had fetched the cognac bottle from the kitchen while he had been outside, and it was almost empty.

‘The clothes belong to a doll,’ Mia continued. ‘The whole outfit does. Where are they from?’

Munch shrugged apologetically.

‘Sorry, I only know what it says in the report. I’m not investigating the case.’

‘Mikkelson sent you?’

Munch nodded.

‘There will be others,’ Mia said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There will be others. She’s just the first.’

‘Are you sure?’

Mia gave him a look.

‘Sorry,’ Munch said.

‘She has a number on the nail of her little finger,’ Mia said.

Mia took a photograph from the folder. A close-up of the girl’s left hand. She placed it in front of Munch and pointed.

‘Do you see? A number has been scraped into the nail of her little finger. It might look like just a scratch, but it isn’t. It’s the number one. There will be others.’

Munch stroked his beard. To him, it looked like just a scratch, and it had been noted in the report as such, but he said nothing.

‘How many?’ he said, to prompt her.

‘As many as the number of fingers, perhaps.’

‘Ten?’

‘It’s hard to say. Could be.’

‘So you’re sure? That there will be others, I mean?’

Mia rolled her eyes at him again and took another swig of her drink.

‘This is clinical. The killer took his time. Incidentally, I’m not sure that it’s a man, or it could be a man, but he isn’t, well Ö’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Normal. If it is a man, then he’s not normal.’

‘You mean in terms of sexual inclination?’

‘It doesn’t quite add up, and yet it does, if you know what I mean. Yes, it adds up, but not exactly… something doesn’t add up, and yet it does, somehow.’

She had left him behind now; she was no longer in the room but back inside her own head. Munch let her continue without interrupting her.

‘What is Methohexital?’

Munch opened the folder and flicked through the crime-scene report before he found the answer. She had not read it, of course. Only looked at the photographs, like she used to.

‘It’s marketed under the brand name Brevital. A barbiturate derivative. It’s used by anaesthetists.’

‘An anaesthetic,’ Mia said, and disappeared back inside herself.

Munch was desperate for a cigarette, but he stayed put. He did not want to light up inside, nor did he want to leave her, not now.

‘He didn’t want to hurt her,’ she suddenly said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The killer didn’t want to hurt her. He dressed her up, he washed her. Gave her an anaesthetic. He didn’t want her to suffer. He liked her.’

‘He liked her?’

Mia Krüger nodded softly.

‘Then why did he hang her with a skipping rope?’

‘She was about to start school.’

‘Why the satchel and the books?’

She looked at him as if he were a complete idiot.

‘Same reason.’

‘Why does it say Toni J. W. Smith rather than Pauline Olsen on the books?’

‘I don’t know.’ Mia sighed. ‘That’s the bit which doesn’t add up. Everything else does, except for that, wouldn’t you agree?’

Munch made no reply.

‘The embroidered label at the back of her dress. “M10:14”. That adds up,’ she continued.

‘Mark 10:14. From the Bible? ìSuffer the little children to come unto meî?’

Munch had remembered this detail from the report, which was actually quite thorough, but they had overlooked the significance of the line on the nail.

Mia nodded.

‘But that’s not important. M10:14. He’s just messing with us. There’s something else which matters more.’

‘More than the name on the books?’

‘I don’t know,’ Mia said.

‘Mikkelson wants you back.’

‘To work on this case?’

‘Just back.’

‘No way. I’m not coming back.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not coming back,’ she exploded. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going back.’

Munch had never seen her like this before. She was trembling; she seemed on the verge of tears. He got up and walked around to the sofa. Sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her head towards his armpit and stroked her hair.

‘There, there, Mia. Let’s call it a day. Thank you so much.’

Mia made no reply; Holger could feel her skinny body quiver against him. She really was unwell. This was something new. He pulled her to standing and helped her up the stairs. Ushered her into the room, to the bed, and covered her with the duvet.

‘You want me to stay the night? Sit here with you? Sleep downstairs on the sofa? Make you some breakfast? I could try to make that spaceship work. Wake you with a cup of coffee?’

Mia Krüger said nothing. The pretty girl he was so fond of was lying almost lifeless under the duvet, not moving. Holger Munch sat down on a chair next to the bed and, a few minutes later, he heard her deep breathing enter a calmer tempo. She was asleep.

Mia? In this state?

He had seen her exhausted and run down in the past, but never like this. This was completely different. He gazed at her tenderly, made sure that she would not be cold and walked downstairs. He found the path leading to the jetty and took out his mobile from the pocket of his jacket.

‘Mikkelson speaking?’

‘It’s Munch.’

‘Yes?’

‘She’s not coming.’

There was silence from the other end.

‘Damn,’ he heard at length. ‘Did she say anything useful? Something we’ve missed?’

‘“There will be others.”’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I just said: there will be others. She has a number scratched into the nail of her little finger. Your people missed that.’

‘Damn,’ Mikkelson swore, and fell silent again.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Munch said eventually.

‘You had better come back,’ Mikkelson said.

‘I’m staying here until tomorrow. She needs me.’

‘That’s not what I meant. I want you to come back.’

‘We’re reopening the unit?’

‘Yes. You’ll report directly to me. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.’

‘OK, I’ll see you tomorrow evening,’ Munch replied.

‘Good,’ Mikkelson replied, and another silence followed.

‘And, no, Mia won’t be coming,’ Munch said in reply to the question that was hanging in the air.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I guarantee you,’ he replied. ‘Mariboesgate, the same offices?’

‘It’s already been taken care of,’ Mikkelson replied. ‘The unit has been reopened unofficially. You can pick your crew when you return to Oslo.’

‘OK,’ Munch replied, and quickly rang off.

He could feel the joy rise in him, but he did not want Mikkelson to know it. He was going back where he belonged. To Oslo. The unit was up and running again. He had got his old job back, and yet his joy was not complete. He had never seen Mia Krüger like this, so far gone, and he would not be bringing her back with him. And the thought of the little girl hanging from the tree continued to send shivers down the spine of the otherwise level-headed investigator.

Munch looked up at the sky. The horizon was darkening now. The stars bathed the silence in a cold light. He tossed his cigarette into the sea and walked slowly back to the house.

Chapter 12

Tobias Iversen found another branch and began making yet another arrow while he waited for his brother to come back. He liked using the knife. Liked the way the blade sliced its way through the wood, liked how steadily he had to angle the knife between the bark and wood in order not to dent the arrow. Tobias Iversen was good with his hands; it was in art and woodwork lessons where he received the most praise. He was only average in the other subjects, especially in maths, but when it came to his hands, then he was gifted. And in Norwegian, too. Tobias Iversen loved reading. Up until now, he had preferred fantasy and sci-fi, but last autumn they had got a cool, new Norwegian teacher, Emilie, who laughed out loud and had lots of freckles; it was almost as if she were not a teacher but a really nice, grown-up girl whose lessons were incredible fun, so different from their last teacher, who had just… come to think of it, he couldn’t remember anything they had done during those lessons. Emilie had given him a long list of books she thought he ought to read. He had almost finished Lord of the Flies, one of her suggestions, and realized how much he was looking forward to going home so he could carry on reading in bed. Or, at least, the reading in bed part; he wasn’t very keen on being at home. On paper, Tobias Iversen was only thirteen years old, but he was much older inside and he had experienced things that no child should. He often thought of running away, packing what little he owned into his rucksack and heading out into the world, away from the dark house, but it was a pipe dream. Where would he go? He had saved up some money from birthdays and Christmas, but it was not enough to travel anywhere and, besides, he couldn’t abandon his younger brother. Who would look after him, if not Tobias? He tried to think about something else, sliding the blade of the knife smoothly under the bark and smiling contentedly to himself when he managed to slice off a long strip without breaking it.

Torben was keeping him waiting. Tobias glanced into the forest, but did not worry unduly. His younger brother was an inquisitive little boy, he had probably just stumbled across an interesting mushroom or an anthill.

‘Why don’t we shoot the Christian girls?’

Tobias had to laugh. Kids, eh, so innocent; they knew nothing, they would say just about anything that came into their heads. It was the opposite in Tobias’s class or in the school playground, where you had to watch every word and thought in case it didn’t fall in line with the majority. Tobias had seen it happen so many times. It was just like in Lord of the Flies. If you showed weakness, you were marked out as a victim straightaway. Right now, he was worried about PE; he was athletic, fortunately, could run quickly, jump long and high, and his football skills were good. The trouble was his PE kit. A couple of new boys who had moved out here from Oslo had brought with them other ways, more money. It was all Adidas or Nike or Puma or Reebok now, and Tobias had had a few snide comments recently about his crappy shoes and shorts, jogging bottoms and the old T-shirts that did not have the right logo or style. Luckily, there was one thing that mattered more, and that was if girls liked you. If girls liked you, then no one cared about your PE kit or how clever you were or what music you listened to, and girls liked Tobias Iversen. Not just because he was fit, but because he was a really nice guy. Then it didn’t matter that his football boots had only one stripe and the soles had holes in them.

The Christian girls. The rumours had started the moment new people had moved into the old farm near Litjønna which had been empty for a long time. They had done up the place; it looked completely different now, and everyone thought that was highly suspicious. Some of the locals thought the newcomers belonged to Brunstad Christian Church, but that turned out to be wrong; apparently, they used to belong to Brunstad Christian Church, but they had decided that they did not agree with it, so they had started their own religion, or whatever you would call it. Everyone thought they knew something, but no one really knew the full story, only that the children who lived there did not go to school and that it was very Christian and all about God and stuff. Tobias was pleased they had come; he had twigged quite early on that whenever people made comments about his clothes or about poverty in general, all he had to do was turn the conversation round to the Christian girls and, hey presto!, everyone forgot about designer labels. Once, after PE, he had even lied about having seen them, just to shut up the two new boys from Oslo, and it had worked a treat. He had made up a story about the girls wearing strange clothes and having almost dead eyes, and how they had chased him away when they spotted him. It had been a dumb thing to do, obviously, because he didn’t know the Christian girls personally, and had no opinion about them, but what else could he do?

Tobias put down the knife and looked at his watch. His brother had been gone for quite a while now, and he started to worry. Not that they had to get home: they had no curfew, no one noticed whether they were in or out. Tobias could only hope that there would be something in the fridge so that he could give his brother some dinner. He had taught himself most household tasks. He could change bed linen, use the washing machine, pack his brother’s schoolbag; he could manage most things really, except for buying food – he didn’t want to spend his own money on food, he didn’t think that was fair – but most of the time there was something in the kitchen cupboards, instant soup or a bit of bread and jam. They usually managed.

He stuck the arrow into the ground next to the tree stump and got up. If they were to have time to hunt bison up near Rundvann, they would have to get a move on. He liked having his brother in bed by nine o’clock, at least on school days. Both for his brother’s benefit and for his own, they shared the attic room, and he enjoyed the few hours he had to himself by the reading lamp once his brother had fallen asleep.

‘Torben?’ he called out.

Tobias started walking through the forest in the direction in which the arrow and his brother had disappeared. The wind had increased slightly and the leaves rustled around him. He wasn’t scared, he had been out here alone many times, and in stronger winds and worse weather; he loved how nature took over and shook everything around him, but his brother scared easily.

‘Torben? Where are you?’

Once more, he felt bad about the things he had said about the Christian girls. He had lied, invented stories in the boys’ changing room. He decided to go on an expedition soon, like the boys in Lord of the Flies who had no adults around. Sneak out, pack some provisions and his torch, make a trip up to Litjønna. He knew the way. See for himself if it was true what they said about the new farm and the fence and everything else. ‘Exciting and educational’: now he remembered the phrase his former Norwegian teacher had been so fond of; everything they were going to do was always exciting and educational, so they had to sit still and listen, but then it never was, it was never exciting and it couldn’t have been all that educational either, because he couldn’t recall anything from those lessons. Then he remembered something his grandfather had said once when they were out for a drive in the old red Volvo: that not everyone is suited to have children, that some people should never have become parents. It had struck a chord with him: perhaps it was the same with teachers? That some were not suited to it and that explained their sad faces every time they entered the classroom.

His train of thought was interrupted by a rustling in the bushes in front of him. Suddenly, his brother appeared out of nowhere with a strange look on his face and a large wet stain on his trousers.

‘Torben? What’s wrong?’

His brother looked at him with empty eyes.

‘There’s an angel hanging all alone in the forest.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘There’s an angel hanging all alone in the forest.’

Tobias put his arms around his brother and could feel how the little boy continued to tremble.

‘Are you making this up, Torben?’

‘No. She’s in there.’

‘Would you show me, please?’

His brother looked up at him.

‘She doesn’t have any wings, but she’s definitely an angel.’

‘Show me,’ Tobias said gravely, and nudged his brother in front of him through the spruce.

Chapter 13

Mia Krüger sat on the rock watching the sunset over Hitra for the last time.

The seventeenth of April. One day to go. Tomorrow, she would rejoin Sigrid.

She felt tired. Not tired in the sense that she needed sleep, but tired of everything. Of life. Of humanity. Of everything that had happened. She had found a kind of peace before Holger had shown her the photographs in the folder but, once he had left, it had crept over her again. This vile feeling.

Evil.

She took a swig from the bottle she had brought with her and pulled the knitted beanie further over her ears. It had grown colder now; spring had not come early, after all. It had only tricked everyone into thinking it was coming. Mia was pleased that she had the bottle to warm her up. This was not how she had imagined her last day. She had planned to cram as much as she could into her last twenty-four hours of life. The birds, the trees, the sea, the light. Have a day off from self-medicating so that she could feel things, be aware of herself, one last time. It had not worked out that way. After Holger had left her, her desire for sensory deprivation had only increased. She had drunk more. Taken more pills. Woken up without realizing that she had been asleep. Fallen asleep without realizing she had been awake. She had promised herself not to care too much about the contents of the file. Stupid, obviously – when had she ever been able to distance herself from anything in these cases? Her job. Well, it might be a job for other people, but not for Mia Krüger. Each case affected her far too deeply. They reached right inside her soul, as if it were her own story, as if she were the victim. Kidnapped, raped, beaten with iron bars, burned with cigarettes, killed by a drug overdose, only six years old, hanged from a tree with a skipping rope.

Why wasn’t Pauline Olsen’s name on the schoolbooks?

When everything else had been planned down to the last detail?

Sod it.

She had tried blanking out the image of the little girl hanging from the tree, but she could not get it out of her head. Everything seemed so staged. So theatrical. Almost like a game. A kind of message. But who for? For whoever found her? The police? She had trawled through her memories to discover if the name Toni had cropped up in any case she had been involved with, but had found nothing. This was exactly the kind of thing Mia used to be so brilliant at, but she no longer seemed to be able to function. And yet there was something here, something she could not quite put her finger on, and it irritated her. Mia watched the sun sink into the sea and tried to concentrate. A message? For the police? An old case? A cold case? There were only a few unsolved cases in her career history, thank God. Even so, one or two still troubled her. A rich, elderly lady had been found dead in her flat on Bogstadveien, but they had been unable to prove that it was murder, even though Mia, personally, was fairly sure that one of the daughters was responsible for the old lady’s death. She could not remember the name Toni in connection with that investigation. They had helped Ringerike Police in a missing person’s inquiry some years back. A baby had disappeared from the maternity ward, a Swedish man had claimed responsibility, killed himself, but the baby had never been found. The case had been shelved, even though Mia had fought to keep it active. No Toni in that investigation either, not so far as she could remember. Pauline. Six years. Hang on – wasn’t it six years since that baby disappeared? Mia drained the bottle and let her eyes rest on the horizon while she tried to guide her gaze inwards. Backwards. Six years back. There was something here. She could almost taste it. But it refused to rise to the surface.

Damn.

Mia rummaged around in her trouser pockets for more pills, but found none. She had forgotten to bring more. Her medication was laid out on the dining table now. Everything she had left. Plenty of it. Ready for use. She had imagined waiting until dawn, until the light came. Better to travel in the light, had been her thinking; if I travel in darkness, perhaps I’ll end up in darkness – but right now she didn’t care. All she had to do was wait until the clock passed midnight. When the seventeenth of April became the eighteenth.

Come to me, Mia, come.

It was not the ending she had imagined. She got up and hurled the empty bottle angrily into the sea. She regretted it immediately: she should not litter; this rule had stayed with her since her childhood. The beautiful garden. Her parents. Her grandmother. Instead, she should have written a message and put it in the bottle. Done something beautiful in her last few hours on earth. Helped someone in need. Solved a case. She wanted to go back to the house, but she could not get her legs to move. She stayed where she was, hugging herself, freezing, on the rocks.

Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Pauline. No, not Pauline. Toni J. W. Smith.

Oh, hell.

Mia Krüger suddenly woke up. As did her head, her legs, her arms, her blood, her breathing, her senses.

Toni J. W. Smith.

Of course. Of course. Of course. Oh, dear Lord, why had she not seen this earlier? It was so obvious. As clear as day. Mia ran towards the house – she tripped in the darkness, but got back on her feet – stormed into the living room without closing the door behind her. She continued into the kitchen. She knelt down by the cupboard below the utility sink and started going through the bin. This was where she had tossed it, wasn’t it? The mobile he had left for her.

In case you change your mind.

She found the mobile in the bin and rummaged around for the scrap of paper which had accompanied it. A yellow Post-it note with a pin code and Holger’s number. She went back to the living room, could hardly wait now, turned on the mobile. Entered the code on the small screen with trembling fingers. Of course. Of course. No wonder it didn’t add up. Everything had to add up. And it did. Toni J. W. Smith. Of course. She was an idiot.

Mia rang Holger’s number and waited impatiently for him to pick up. The mobile went to voicemail, but she rang the number again. And again. And again, until she finally heard Holger’s sleepy voice on the other end.

‘Mia?’ Holger yawned.

‘I got it,’ Mia said breathlessly.

‘What have you got? What time is it?’

‘Who cares what time it is? I’ve got it.’

‘What?’

‘Toni J. W. Smith.’

‘Seriously? What is it?’

‘I think that J. W. is short for Joachim Wicklund. The Swedish suspect in the Hønefoss case. Do you remember him?’

‘Of course I do,’ Munch mumbled.

‘As for Toni Smith,’ Mia continued. ‘I think it’s an anagram: It’s not him. Joachim Wicklund didn’t do it. It’s the same perpetrator, Holger. As in the Hønefoss case.’

Munch was silent for a long time. Mia could practically hear the cogs turn in his brain. It was almost too far out to be true, but even so. It had to be an anagram.

‘Don’t you think?’ Mia said.

‘But that’s insane,’ Munch said at length. ‘Worst thing is, I think you might be right. So, are you coming?’

‘Yes,’ Mia replied. ‘But this case only. Then I quit. I have other things to do.’

‘Of course. It’s up to you,’ Munch said.

‘Are we back in Mariboesgate?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll catch the plane tomorrow.’

‘Great. See you there.’

‘You will.’

‘Drive carefully, will you?’

‘I’m always careful, Holger.’

‘You’re never careful, Mia.’

‘Screw you, Holger.’

‘I love you, too, Mia. Good to have you back. See you tomorrow.’

Mia ended the call and stood for a moment, smiling cautiously to herself. Now feeling calm, she walked into the living room and looked at all the pills she had lined up on the dining table.

Come to me, Mia, come.

In her mind she apologized to her twin sister. Sigrid would have to wait a little longer. Mia Krüger had a job to do first.