I'm Travelling Alone

Chapter 33

Tom-Erik Sørlie, a Norwegian veteran of Afghanistan, was sitting by his living-room window when two police cars pulled up on the road below his house and started putting up barriers. He picked up his binoculars from the coffee table and adjusted the lenses until the officers came into focus. He had listened to the police radio all day, as he always did, and he knew that something had happened. Two little girls had been killed, he believed another two had gone missing and now police had decided to check all the roads going out of Oslo. He adjusted the lenses again. Armed police officers with helmets and machine pistols, Heckler & Koch MP5s – he knew the gun well, had used it many times himself. The armed police officers had finished setting up the checkpoint and were now stopping cars. Fortunately for the drivers, it was early in the day. Most of the traffic was heading into the capital, not out.

He put down the binoculars and turned up the sound of the news. His TV was always on. As was his computer. And the police radio. He liked to keep up. Keep himself informed. It was his way of feeling alive now that he was no longer part of the action.

Lex, his puppy, stirred in its basket before padding over to him. It settled by his feet with its head to one side and its tongue hanging out. The Alsatian wanted to go for a walk. Tom-Erik Sørlie stroked the dog’s head and tried to keep an eye on the screens. A TV2 reporter appeared in front of a camera with a microphone in her hand. A residential development in Skullerud could be seen in the background. Police cordons. A girl had gone missing from there. He had heard the news one hour ago. He got up and grabbed the Alsatian puppy by the collar. Guided it out on the steps, into the garden and attached it to the running line. He did not have the energy to go for a walk now. His head was hurting.

It had grown dark outside before the police took down the barriers in the road. A whole day. Someone in the Department must have written them a blank cheque. He ate his dinner in front of the television. A photofit appeared on the screen. A woman. A witness had seen her in Skullerud. Good luck, Tom-Erik Sørlie thought. It could be anyone. Footage from a press conference. A female public prosecutor. The girls were still missing. No leads. Two murder investigators getting into a car. A bearded man in a beige duffel coat. A woman with long, black hair. Both were sharp-eyed. The man in the duffel coat flapped his hand to make the journalists go away. No comment.

He turned the volume down on the television and got up to make himself a cup of coffee. Was that a noise he heard? Was there someone in the garden? He put on his shoes and went outside. The Alsatian was no longer attached to the running line.

‘Lex?’

He walked around the house to the back garden and had a shock when he saw the apple tree.

Someone had killed his dog and hanged it by its neck from a skipping rope.

Chapter 34

Mia Krüger crossed the road and started walking up Tøyengata. She found a lozenge in her pocket and tried to ignore the newspaper headlines. She passed yet another kiosk which had her life on display. MYSTERY WOMAN: STILL NO LEADS. The photofit of the woman seen by the pensioner was on the front page. There was nothing wrong with the photofit. Just like there was nothing wrong with the witness observation. The only problem was that it could be anyone. Nine hundred phone calls, and that was just on day one. People thought it was their neighbour, their workmate, their niece, someone they had seen queuing for a ferry the day before. The switchboard at Police Headquarters had been jammed; they had had to shut it down, take a break. Rumour had it that waiting time to get through had been up to two hours. HAVE YOU SEEN KAROLINE OR ANDREA? New front pages, big photographs of the girls, blown up as if to mock her. You can’t do your job. This is your responsibility. If those girls die, it’ll be your fault.

And what was all that blood about? Mia Krüger didn’t understand it. It made no sense. It didn’t fit with the other evidence. They had tested the blood; it belonged to neither of the girls. It wasn’t even human. It came from a pig. The killer was taunting them, that was what she was doing. Or he. Mia Krüger was starting to have doubts. Something didn’t add up. With the woman seen in Skullerud. With the photofit. She got the feeling the whole thing was a game. Look how easy it all is for me. I can do whatever I want.

I win. You lose.

Mia tightened her jacket around her and crossed the street again. They had nothing on the white Citro‘n. Nothing from the list of previous offenders. Ludvig and Curry had reviewed the Hønefoss case in detail – one of the offices in Mariboesgate was covered from floor to ceiling with photographs and notes – but, despite their efforts, they hadn’t discovered anything so far. After all, there had been nearly eight hundred and sixty staff members at the hospital where the baby had been taken. Not to mention everyone with easy access: patients, visitors, relatives. It all added up to thousands of potential suspects. Nor had the surveillance cameras picked up anything. There had been no cameras in the maternity unit itself in those days, only near the exit. Mia remembered watching hours of recordings without success. Nothing. Crates of interviews and statements. Doctors, nurses, patients, physiotherapists, social workers, relatives, receptionists, cleaners… she had personally spoken to nearly a hundred people. Everyone had been equally upset. How could it happen? How could someone just walk into a maternity unit and walk out with a baby without being challenged? She remembered how high-ranking officers at Police Headquarters had jumped for joy when the young Swede had ‘confessed’ and then killed himself. They couldn’t shelve the case fast enough. Brush it under the carpet. A blot on the force. It was a question of moving on.

Mia Krüger crossed the street again and entered a courtyard. It was a long time since her last visit, but the place was still there. The green door without a sign, hidden away in an invisible corner of the city. She knocked and waited for someone to open it. They had decided to offer a reward now, the girls’ families and their supporters. Munch and Mia had been against it – it would only increase the number of time wasters, telephone calls, block the lines for people with important information – but after consulting their lawyers they had decided to go ahead with it nevertheless. The police could do nothing to prevent it. Perhaps they might even benefit from it. Maybe the right amount of money would entice someone out from the shadows.

A small hatch opened in the door and a man’s face appeared.

‘Yes?’

‘Mia Krüger,’ Mia said. ‘Is Charlie there?’

The hatch was shut again. A couple of minutes passed, then the man returned. He opened the door for her and let her in. The security guard was new; she hadn’t seen him before. A typical choice for Charlie: a bodybuilder, big with a square body, tattooed biceps bigger than her thighs.

‘He’s down there.’ The man nodded, pointing further down the room.

Charlie Brun was standing behind the bar with a big smile on his face when she appeared. He hadn’t changed. Perhaps a tiny bit older and his eyes a little more weary, but as colourful as always. Heavily made up and wearing a bright-green sequin dress with a feather boa around his neck.

‘Mia Moonbeam.’ Charlie laughed, and came out from behind the bar to give her a hug. ‘It’s been absolutely ages, how the devil are you, girl?’

‘I’m good.’ Mia nodded, and sat down.

There were only a six or seven men in the club, most of them wearing women’s clothing. Leopardskin-print trousers and high heels. White dresses and long silk gloves. At Charlie’s, you could be anyone you wanted to be; no one cared. The lighting was soft. The mood relaxed. A jukebox in the corner played Edith Piaf.

‘You look terrible,’ Charlie Brun said, shaking his head. ‘Do you want a beer?’

‘What, you finally got a licence to serve alcohol?’

‘Tut-tut, girl. We don’t use words like that here.’ Charlie winked at her and pulled her a beer. ‘Do you want a small one or…?’

‘What’s a small one in this place in the daytime?’ Mia smiled, and took a sip of her beer.

‘It’s whatever size you want it to be.’ Charlie winked again and wiped the counter in front of her.

‘Sadly,’ he continued, ‘the place isn’t buzzing as much as it used to. We’re getting old, or least Charlie is.’

He flung the green feather boa around his neck and reached for a bottle on the shelf.

‘How about a Jäger?’

Mia nodded and took off her knitted beanie and leather jacket. It was good to be indoors where it was warm. Hide from the world for a while. She had hung out at Charlie’s back in the days when the investigation into her had been all over the media. Mia had discovered this place by accident and felt at home immediately. No prying eyes. Tranquillity and security, almost a second family. It seemed a very long time ago, in another life. She didn’t recognize any of the men wearing ladies’ clothes sitting in the booths over by the red wall.

Charlie found two glasses and poured them each a Jägermeister.

‘Cheers, darling. Good to see you again.’

‘Likewise.’ Mia smiled.

‘Goes without saying you don’t look a day older,’ Charlie said.

He cupped Mia’s face in his hands and studied it.

‘Those cheekbones, girl. You shouldn’t have been a police officer. You should have been a model. But seriously, how about embracing healthy living, for the sake of your skin? And you are allowed to put on a bit of make-up every now and again, even though you’re a girl. Right, I’ve got it off my chest. Mamma Charlie always tells it like it is.’ Charlie winked and smiled faintly.

‘Thank you.’ Mia smiled, and knocked back her Jägermeister.

It warmed her all the way down her throat.

‘Could we have a bottle of champagne over here, Charlie?’

‘What have I said to you about shouting, Linda?’

Charlie was addressing a man at one of the tables. He was wearing a pink minidress, ankle boots, gloves and a string of pearls. He might be in his forties, but he moved his body and his arms like a fifteen-year-old girl.

‘Oh, come on, Charlie. Be a dear.’

‘This is a respectable establishment, not some Turkish brothel. Do you need fresh glasses?’

‘No, we’ll use the ones we already have,’ giggled the man whose name was Linda.

‘No class.’ Charlie sighed and rolled his eyes.

He fetched a bottle of champagne from the back room and brought it to the table. Opened it with a bang, to the delight of the men-girls, who clapped and cheered.

‘Right,’ Charlie said when he came back. ‘I thought we’d lost you?’

‘Rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,’ Mia said.

‘A bit of rouge, a touch of foundation and I would agree.’ Charlie giggled. ‘Oh, that was naughty of me. What a naughty girl I am!’

Charlie Brun leaned over the counter and gave her a big hug. Mia had to smile. It was a long time since she had been hugged by a bear in women’s clothing. It felt good.

‘Was I being naughty? You look absolutely gorgeous – you do! A million dollars.’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Mia laughed.

‘Two million.’

‘That’s enough, Charlie.’

‘Ten million. Another Jäger?’

Mia nodded.

‘So what’s up,’ Charlie asked when they had both emptied their glasses.

‘I need your help,’ Mia said, and produced a photograph from the inside pocket of her jacket.

She slid the picture across the counter. Charlie put on a pair of glasses and held the photograph close to a candle.

‘Ah, Randi.’ Charlie nodded. ‘I had a feeling you were involved. Tragic story.’

‘Was he one of your customers? Sorry, I mean, was she?’

Charlie took off his glasses and pushed the photograph back across the counter.

‘Yes, Randi used to come here.’ He nodded. ‘From time to time. Sometimes she would come often, then several months would pass before we saw her again. Roger was one of those who – well, how do I put it? – wasn’t comfortable with who he was. I think he tried really hard not to be Randi, but you know what it’s like, he couldn’t help himself. He had to get very drunk in order to let himself go. Sometimes we had to ask Randi to leave when she started bothering the other guests.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘Why he jumped?’

Mia nodded. Charlie heaved a sigh.

‘No idea. It’s a tough world out there, that’s all I can say. It’s hard enough to be normal. It’s even tougher when society wants you to be one person while your body tells you something else.’

‘No one is more normal than you,’ Mia said, and raised her beer glass from the counter.

Charlie giggled.

‘Me? Christ, I gave all that up thirty years ago, but not everybody is like me, you know. Some are riddled with guilt, shame and a bad conscience. We can get the Internet on our mobiles and send vehicles to Mars but, mentally and emotionally, we still live as we did back in the Dark Ages, but then again, you would know all about that.’

‘Would I?’ Mia said.

‘Yes, because you’re smart, that’s why I like you so much. And pretty – that helps, obviously – but smart: I don’t need to explain everything to you. Why don’t you become prime minister, Mia? Teach this country a thing or two?’

‘Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘You may be right. You’re far too nice.’

Charlie chuckled and poured them each another Jäger.

‘Did she always come here alone?’

‘Who? Randi?’

Mia nodded.

‘Mostly. She bought a female friend a couple of times, but I never spoke to her.’

‘A man?’

‘No, a woman.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Hard. Straight-backed. Dark hair scraped back in a ponytail. Rather odd eyes.’

‘What do you mean by odd eyes?’

‘They were different colours.’

‘Really?’

Charlie nodded.

‘One was blue and one was brown. She looked a bit freaky. Callous. Serious. I was quite pleased when he stopped bringing her, to be frank. She gave me the creeps.’

‘When was this?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember.’

Charlie found a cloth and started wiping the bar counter again.

‘Some months after you stopped coming here, I guess. By the way, where have you been?’

‘I left the world for a while.’

‘Well, it’s good to have you back. I’ve missed you.’

Charlie winked at her and raised her shot glass.

‘Do you want me to throw out the other guests? Then we can have a proper drink, like we used to in the old days.’

‘Some other time, Charlie.’

Mia put on her jacket.

‘Too much to do right now.’

She found a pen in her pocket and scribbled down her number on a napkin.

‘Call me if you remember anything else, will you?’

Charlie leaned over the counter and kissed her goodbye on both cheeks.

‘Don’t be a stranger.’

‘I promise.’ Mia smiled.

She pulled her beanie well over her head and stepped out into the rainy Oslo evening. She scouted for a taxi, but saw none. Never mind. She wasn’t in a hurry. It wasn’t as if anyone was waiting for her back at the hotel. She pulled the hood of her jacket over her beanie and had just started walking back to the city centre when her mobile rang. It was Gabriel Mørk.

‘Hi,’ Mia said.

‘Hi, it’s Gabriel. Is now a good time?’

‘Absolutely,’ Mia replied. ‘Are you still at the office?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t actually have to be there 24/7 – you are allowed to go home, you know. I don’t know if Holger has told you that?’

‘No, I know that, but there’s quite a lot to learn.’

Gabriel sounded a little weary.

‘So, any news for me?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. It occurred to me that there must be a way to retrieve deleted text messages, so I called a mate of mine, an Apple freak.’

‘And?’

‘Simple. I found them.’

‘Everything that was on Roger’s mobile?’

‘Yep.’

‘Wow, that’s brilliant,’ Mia said. ‘So what have we got?’

‘Good news and bad. I found the deleted messages, but there weren’t many of them. His mobile must have been quite new. I’m starting to get cross-eyed and I don’t have the energy to read them all out loud; do you think you could look at them tomorrow?’

‘Sure. Am I right in thinking there was no sender this time, either?’

‘No, I have a number.’

‘Whose is it?’

‘It’s not listed. That’s why I’m calling. I’m going to have to hack several databases to find out who owns it.’

‘How many are we talking about?’

For a moment there was silence at the other end.

‘As many as I have to.’

‘And?’

‘Er, it’s illegal. We should really get a court order first. What do you think?’

‘Have you spoken to Holger?’

‘He’s not answering his phone.’

‘We can’t wait for him,’ Mia said. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK,’ Gabriel said.

‘Are you starting now?’

‘I thought I might hit the sheets first.’

‘As you like. I’m sure it can wait until tomorrow morning.’

‘Or I could do it now.’

‘Now is fine. I’m staying awake.’

‘OK.’

Mia ended the call and continued towards the city centre. The streets were practically deserted. She could see people through the windows, the glare from their television screens. Suddenly, her hotel seemed even less attractive than it had done earlier. There was no reason to go there. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. She might as well have another beer. Try to focus her mind.

Fortunately, Justisen was not busy. Mia ordered a beer and found a table in a quiet corner. She took out pen and paper, and sat staring at the blank sheet in front of her. Four girls. Six years old. Pauline. Johanne. Karoline. Andrea. She wrote down their names at the top of the sheet. Pauline. Went missing from her nursery. Found in Maridalen. Johanne. Went missing from her nursery. Found by Hadelandsveien. Karoline and Andrea. Taken from their homes. Where would they be found? She could see no pattern. The answer had to be there somewhere. Roger Bakken/Randi. The text messages. ‘It is unwise to fly too near the sun.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Bye, bye, birdie.’

First message. Icarus. Roger had done something he shouldn’t have. Second message. ‘Who’s there?’ She seemed to remember a series of jokes that went like this. ‘Knock knock.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Doris.’

‘Doris who?’

‘Doris locked, that’s why I’m knocking.’ It made no sense. ‘Bye, bye, birdie.’ That was easier. Bye Bye Birdie was a musical popular with gay men. The eagle tattoo. See you later, birdie.

Mia got a foul taste in her mouth and ordered another Jäger to wash it away. The alcohol made her feel good. She was starting to get a little drunk, but it made it easier to think. She found another piece of paper and placed it alongside the first. Satchels. Books. Paper. The names on the books. Doll’s dresses. I’m travelling alone. ‘These go together,’ she quickly scribbled. They add up. Pig’s blood. ‘Who’s there?’

‘They don’t add up,’ she wrote below it. Two from nursery school. Two in their homes. Ten dresses. A woman. Mia ordered another beer. It was happening now. Her head was clearer. The transvestite. A woman. Gender. Playing with gender? Gender confusion? Shame. Guilt. ‘I’m travelling alone.’ The first symbols were clear proof of intelligence. Satchel. Sign. Doll’s dresses. The others didn’t fit in with the rest: they were just white noise. Pig’s blood? ‘Who’s there?’ She tore off another sheet and placed it next to the first two. Knocked back her beer and ordered another one and a chaser. This was it. She was on to something. She wrote ‘woman’ at the top of the third piece of paper. Hønefoss. Maternity ward. Washed and got the girls ready. Anaesthesia. Care. Nurse? Photofit. Looks like everyone else. Invisible? How can you hide in plain sight? She left a section of the paper blank and wrote something at the bottom. Callous. Serious. Different-coloured eyes. One brown and one blue. Schizophrenia? One in Maridalen. One near Hadelandsveien. Forest. Hidden. Have to search. Have to work. Have to hunt. On display, and yet hidden. She wants to show us what she’s done, but not make it so obvious that we don’t have to look. Pig’s blood? ‘Who’s there?’ Why so clean first? Serious? Why so unclean later? Mia ordered more alcohol and found another sheet of paper. It was starting to flow now, there was something there. Something was taking shape, but it refused to come into focus. Pride. Look at me. Look at what I’ve done. Toni J. W. Smith. You’re useless, and I’m going to prove it. It’s me against you. A game. Why so clean first, and then so unclean? Blood? Pig’s blood? Staged. So theatrical. Fake. Ignore it. It was loosening up inside her now. A rush of unstoppable thoughts. That was it. Fake. Ignore it. Mia scribbled furiously; she almost forgot her drinks. Ignore it. Not everything matters. Not the staged elements. Not the theatricality. It is dishonest. Fake. It doesn’t add up. Look at what does add up. What is true. Which symbols point where? What do we need to address and what can we disregard? Is that the game?

That is the game.

Mia smiled to herself, but was unaware of it. She was miles away. Deep inside herself. The city didn’t exist. Justisen didn’t exist. The table didn’t exist. Beer didn’t exist. Skipping rope, yes. Satchels, yes. Doll’s dresses, yes. ‘I’m travelling alone,’ yes. Anaesthesia, yes. Pig’s blood, no: fake. ‘Bye, bye, birdie,’ no, not important. ‘Fly too near the sun,’ no, not important. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Mia?’

Mia was so startled that she leapt from her chair. She looked around, dazed, not knowing where she was.

‘Sorry, am I disturbing you?’

Reality slowly returned to her. Her beer came back into view. The room came back. And there was Susanne, standing next to her table, with frizzy hair, her jacket soaked from the rain, looking upset.

‘Hi, are you all right?’

‘Do you mind if I sit down? I can see that you’re working. I don’t want to intrude.’

Mia didn’t have time to reply. Susanne took off her jacket and collapsed on the chair like a drowned rat.

‘Sit down,’ Mia said. ‘No, it’s fine. Is it raining outside?’

‘Inside and out.’ Susanne heaved a sigh and buried her face in her hands. ‘I didn’t know where to go. I thought you might be here.’

‘And I was,’ Mia said. ‘Do you want a beer?’

Susanne nodded quietly. Mia went up to the bar. She came back to the table with two beers and two Jägermeisters.

‘Are you writing a novel?’ Susanne said, mustering up a feeble smile under her fringe.

‘No, it’s just work,’ Mia said.

‘Good, because that phrase has already been taken,’ Susanne said, pointing to one of the sheets.

‘ “Who’s there?” ’

‘What do you mean, taken? Where’s it from?’

‘It’s the opening line of Hamlet.’

Susanne brushed her hair behind her ear and drank some of her beer.

‘Are you sure?’

Susanne laughed.’

‘Yes, I should hope so. I mean, I’m the assistant director. I practically know the script by heart.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,’ Mia said. ‘Is it really?’

Susanne coughed slightly and suddenly switched to drama Susanne from Åsgårdstrand:

‘Who’s there? Nay, answer me, stand and unfold yourself. Long live the King!’

She took another sip of her beer and seemed a little embarrassed.

‘It’s not original. We can ignore it,’ Mia said quietly.

‘Ignore what?’ Susanne said.

‘Oh, nothing. So what’s happened? Why are you looking so miserable?’

Susanne sighed again. Pulled out her hair from behind her ear and tried to hide behind it.

‘The same old story. I’m an idiot.’

It was only now that Mia realized her friend had had quite a lot to drink already. She was slurring her words and struggled to steer the beer glass to her lips.

‘Actors. Never trust them,’ she continued. ‘One day they tell you they love you, and then the next day they don’t, and then they love you again, and then you believe them, and they sleep with one of the girls from the lighting crew. What’s wrong with them?’

‘Two faces,’ Mia said. ‘It’s hard to know which one is real.’

Two faces?

Playing with gender?

An actor?

‘Lying bastards,’ Susanne said, quite loudly.

Her voice travelled through the bar, and some of the other drinkers turned to look at them.

‘It’ll pass, won’t it?’ Mia said, putting her hand on her friend’s arm.

‘It always does. You just have to get back on the horse again. A never-ending merry-go-round, just like Ibsen’s Peer Gynt. Round and round, then suddenly life is over, and you never found your true love.’

‘You’re drunk,’ Mia said, and stroked her arm again. ‘And you’re talking rubbish. Why don’t we get you to bed?’

Mia was starting to feel quite drunk herself. She drained her beer and watched as Susanne tried to drink the rest of hers.

‘I always end up going home alone,’ Susanne said, wiping away a tear.

Mia’s mobile rang. It was Gabriel Mørk again. She looked up at Susanne.

‘Go on, answer it,’ Susanne nodded. ‘Christ, it’s not that bad. I’m just feeling sorry for myself.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course I am.’

‘Back in a sec.’

Mia answered the phone and walked outside into the beer garden.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Gabriel.’

‘What have we got?’

‘Another dead end.’

‘You didn’t find anything?’

‘Yes, the number is registered to a Veronica Bache.’

‘Excellent, Gabriel. Who is she?’

‘The question you should be asking me is who was she? Veronica Bache lived to be ninety-four. She died in 2010.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘She was old.’

‘Yes, I get that, but how is it possible for her phone to be active two months ago, if she died in 2010?’

‘No idea, Mia. I’m exhausted now. I can’t see straight, I’ve been awake for almost thirty hours.’

‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

She ended the call and went back inside. Susanne was no longer at the table but standing by the bar, swaying, trying unsuccessfully to convince the bartender that she was sober enough to buy more drinks. Mia gathered together her papers, put on her leather jacket and guided her friend out of the bar.

‘I’m not drunk,’ Susanne insisted.

‘I think you’ll be sleeping at my place tonight,’ Mia said.

She put her arm around her friend and led her gently through the wet streets towards her hotel.

Chapter 35

The woman with one blue and one brown eye was standing in front of one of the mirrors in her bathroom. She opened the bathroom cabinet and took out the lenses. Blue today. Blue eyes at work. Not different-coloured eyes. Not at work. At work, she wasn’t her true self. At work, nobody knows who I am. And, anyway, it wasn’t her real job, was it? It was just a cover. Just for appearance’s sake. She pulled her hair into a tight ponytail and bent forward towards the mirror. Placed the lenses carefully against her eyes and blinked. She put on a fake smile and studied herself: Hi, I’m Malin. Malin Stoltz. I work here. You think you know me, but you have no idea who I really am. Look how good I am at lying. Smiling. Pretending that I care what you’re talking about. Oh, your dog is sick? How awful. I hope it’s feeling better now. A glass of squash, of course, no problem, Mrs Olsen. Now let me change your bedlinen as well, make it more comfortable for you, there’s nothing nicer than fresh linen. The woman with one blue and one brown eye left the bathroom and went to her bedroom, opened her wardrobe and took out her uniform. Staff wore white: a good rule. When everyone wears the same, we become invisible. Unless our eyes are different colours. And now they aren’t. Now they are blue. As blue as the sea. Norwegian eyes. Beautiful eyes. Normal eyes. Sandwiches in the break room. Totally, I completely agree with you. She should have been kicked off the show, I certainly didn’t vote for her, that woman has two left feet. Dead faces. Empty. Vacant. Empty words. Lips moving below dead eyes. Did he really say that? Your ex-husband? How dare he! Yes, of course I’m on Facebook. Coffee. Eight o’clock. Sometimes I work night shifts. I park in the garage. But it’s not my real job, is it? Not really? No, reality is completely different.

The woman with one blue and one brown eye went out into the hall, picked up her bag and her coat, walked downstairs and got into her car. She started the engine and turned on the radio. They are missing, but no one will find them, will they? Not everyone is capable of having children. Who gets to decide? Who decides who can have a child? Some people lose a child. Who gets to decide? Who decides who will lose a child? It’s not my real job. Not this. No, no one can say what my real job is. Yes, some people know, but they won’t tell.

The woman with one blue and one brown eye changed radio stations. It was the same everywhere. The girls are still missing and nobody knows where they are. Where are those girls? Are they still alive? Is someone holding them captive? How many girls do you need? How many children do you have to have? Two point three, isn’t that the norm? Normal? So you’re not normal if you don’t have children? What if you can’t have children? The woman with one blue and one brown eye drove slowly out of the city centre. It is important to drive slowly if you want to be invisible. If someone were to stop your car, they might discover that it is not yours. That your name is not Malin Stoltz. That it is something completely different. That would not be good. Slow is better. Sometimes, you can hide in plain sight – at work, for example. Some people think you need an education in order to get a job. You don’t. You just need papers. Papers are easy to fake. You just need references. References are easy to fake. The woman with one blue and one brown eye turned off Drammensveien and drove up to the white brick building. She parked her car and made her way to the entrance. Ten minutes to eight. If you arrive on time and do your job, nobody asks any questions.

She opened the door and went to the staff changing room. Hung up her coat, left her bag in her locker and looked in the mirror again. I have two blue eyes. I’m a little girl with blue eyes. This is just for fun. My real job is completely different. As long as nobody says anything, everything will be just fine. Sometimes you can hide in plain sight. The woman with one blue and one brown eye tightened her ponytail and went to the nurses’ station.

‘Hi, Malin.’

‘Hi, Eva.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m really good. And you?’

‘It was a long night. Helen Olsen felt unwell again. I had to call the ambulance.’

‘Oh dear, I do hope she’s feeling better.’

‘It’s fine. She’s coming back today.’

‘Good. That’s good. How’s your dog?’

‘Better. It wasn’t as serious as we first feared.’

I’m not ill. You’re ill.

‘Who’s on duty today?’

‘You and Birgitte and Karen.’

I’m not ill. You’re ill.

‘What is this?’

The woman with one blue and one brown eye looked at the notice above the coffee machine.

HØVIKVEIEN CARE HOME CELEBRATES 10 YEARS!

‘Oh, that’ll be nice. Big party on Friday.’

‘Yes, it’ll be fun, won’t it?’

‘Will you be there?’

‘Yes, of course. Of course, I’ll be there.’

You’re all sick. This isn’t reality.

‘Some of the girls talked about getting together for a drink beforehand. Are you in?’

‘Of course I’m in, sounds like fun. Do you want me to bring anything?’

‘Talk to Birgitte, she’s organizing it.’

‘Right, I will.’

‘Can’t wait!’

‘Me neither.’

‘Have a good shift, Malin.’

‘Thanks. Drive safely. Say hi to your husband.’

‘Thank you, I will.’

The woman with one blue and one brown eye poured herself a cup of coffee, sat down and pretended to read the newspaper.

Chapter 36

Mia Krüger was wearing sunglasses and sitting on the top floor of the hotel where the breakfast buffet was laid out. She had a pounding headache and couldn’t remember much about how last night had ended. She had propped Susanne up as they walked back, but they would appear to have stumbled into one more bar on their way. Where had they been? Mia knocked back a glass of orange juice and forced down a few bits of bacon. She felt childishly sick and remorseful. Had she drunk dialled Holger? A nagging feeling at the back of her head told her that she had decided that she absolutely must tell him what she had discovered, that it couldn’t wait. Never mind. Susanne appeared from the Ladies, practically crawling back to the table. She looked even worse than Mia; she had barely sobered up.

‘We have to stop doing this,’ Susanne sighed, as if she had read Mia’s thoughts.

She collapsed on to the chair and clasped her head.

‘Absolutely,’ Mia nodded. ‘Bad company.’

‘Are you saying I’m bad company?’ Susanne said with a frown.

‘No, no, that’s not what I meant. We’re keeping bad company, it’s not our fault.’ Mia smiled.

‘Actors. Bunch of self-obsessed chimpanzees. Who cares? Incestuous bunch, sleeping with each other, gossiping about each other – they think that other people care who got which part, and what he thinks about what she thinks about what he thinks that the director is sleeping with this one instead of that one.’

‘Get it out of your system.’ Mia chuckled behind her sunglasses.

‘It’s all bollocks. ìLook at me! Look at me! Look at me!î It’s as if we never left the school playground.’

Mia had come so close to a breakthrough last night; the pieces had been just about to fall into place. All she wanted to do was shut herself inside her hotel room today, immerse herself in the material again. This was what she liked best. Losing herself in a case. Disappearing deep inside it. That was where she belonged. It was a good place to be.

‘Shit, we have a cos and prop rehearsal at noon today. It had completely slipped my mind,’ Susanne said.

‘Cos and prop?’

‘First rehearsal with everyone in costume and all props in place.’

Mia nodded and looked at her watch.

‘You’ll make it, it’s only ten thirty.’

‘Why had you made a note of the opening line of Hamlet yesterday?’

‘It’s work,’ Mia said. ‘I can’t talk about it.’

‘I understand.’ Susanne nodded. ‘I just thought it looked a bit strange.’

‘Perhaps,’ Mia said.

‘Is it about the missing girls?’

‘I can’t discuss it, Susanne.’

‘I told someone at the theatre that I knew you. Was that wrong?’ Susanne confessed quickly.

‘No, that’s all right. Why?’

‘There’s a girl in the cast. Pernille Lyng. Plays Ophelia. She’s the aunt of one of the missing girls. She’s completely cut up about it.’

‘I see,’ Mia said.

‘Yes, Andrea is her niece. Did you know?’

‘I can’t tell you, Susanne.’

‘No, of course. I just think it’s strange, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That Andrea disappears just as Hamlet is about to open, and that you have the opening line written on a piece of paper. I thought there might be a link.’

Mia smiled and put her hand over her friend’s.

‘Let’s not talk about this any more. It sounds as if you have enough drama in your life already. These are just coincidences, they have nothing to do with each other, OK?’

‘OK.’ Susanne nodded. ‘I shouldn’t drink, it makes me paranoid.’

‘I agree.’ Mia smiled. ‘I’ll never touch another drop.’

‘That’s exactly what I tell myself the morning after every time.’ Susanne giggled. ‘But as soon as I feel better again, it’s like I forget it. Strange, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, that is strange,’ Mia laughed.

‘Right, got to run,’ Susanne said, getting up. ‘I need to get home and change before rehearsal. I get too many sideways glances if I turn up in yesterday’s clothes. It won’t take long before everyone starts looking around the room, wondering who else didn’t sleep in their own bed last night, get it?’

‘I get it.’ Mia nodded.

She got up and gave Susanne a hug.

‘Thanks for everything,’ Susanne said. ‘See you soon?’

‘Love to,’ Mia nodded. ‘But no more beer. Tea next time.’

‘OK.’ Susanne smiled.

Her blonde friend picked up her handbag and waved as she left the hotel restaurant, trying her hardest to look sober.

Chapter 37

Holger Munch was sitting, mildly irritated, outside Mikkelson’s office in Grønland. He regretted agreeing to their phones being monitored: as a result, everyone was now insisting on face-to-face meetings. He didn’t have time for this. The girls were alive, and soon they would be dead. It was how it was. If it was the same person. And it was. A slightly different MO, a deviation from the original method, but this was their killer. A woman, but they had no trace of her. Thousands of telephone calls, but nothing to show for them. Absolutely nothing. That is, if the witness observation had been correct in the first place. He had seemed credible, the pensioner. A woman. Between thirty and thirty-five years old. About 1.7 metres tall. Hair scraped back under a hood. Straight nose. Blue eyes. Narrow lips. But that could be anyone. Where was she holding the girls? Were they already dead?

Munch took a piece of chewing gum from his pocket and drummed his fingers on the chair. He had arranged with Mia to meet at the care home so he could have a quick word with his mother, grasp the nettle, but he was tempted to cancel. He really didn’t have the time. Certainly not if he had to waste half his day on pointless meetings like this one. A quick visit to the care home, tell his mother what he thought, and then get the hell out of there. It would be all right. He had to do it, before it was too late. Before the family inheritance ended up in the hands of some charlatan promising eternal life in heaven – as long as she gave him everything she owned. He checked the time on his mobile and his irritation grew.

Andrea and Karoline were missing. They had disappeared on his watch, after he had taken over the investigation. Soon someone would anaesthetize them. Wash them. Dress them in doll’s dresses. Hang them with satchels on their back. Unless he found them first. Holger felt trapped in a fog. At this stage, he didn’t know which direction the investigation should take. What the next step should be. A woman no one knew anything about was their only lead. Roger Bakken, the transvestite. That trail had also gone cold. Mia had called him in the middle of the night, drunk, with something she absolutely had to tell him, she had made a discovery, but her words had been so slurred that he had told her to go to bed. Their phones were being monitored. Probably not such a wise move after all. He would have a word with Gabriel. See if they could delete those conversations which were clearly private. Keep them out of the reports. Including the call he had from Mia last night.

‘Holger, do come in.’

Mikkelson was fraught; Munch could tell from his furrowed brow.

‘Where are we?’ he asked when Munch had sat down.

‘Same as yesterday,’ Munch replied. ‘No credible tip-offs about the woman in the photofit. We’re still checking it but, sadly, it looks like a dead end.’

‘ALPHA1 and no new information about the girls, how is that possible?’

Munch suddenly felt as if he were back at school. In the headmaster’s office, being read the riot act. He hated it, but right now there was very little he could do about it.

‘I don’t understand it myself either. It seems incredibly well planned – that’s all I can tell you at this stage. If she had acted on impulse, we would have caught her a long time ago.’

‘It’s not good enough. It’s just not good enough,’ Mikkelson snarled.

‘Did you ask me to come here just so you could tell me that?’ Munch asked dryly. ‘You could have given me a bollocking on the phone.’

‘Yes – no – sorry.’

Mikkelson took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Not a good sign. Something was up.

‘I’m being pressured from above,’ he continued, and put his glasses back on his nose.

‘Who from? Justice?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘We’re doing our best.’

‘I know. I’ve told them. That’s not it.’

‘So what’s the problem?’ Munch asked.

He was starting to lose his patience. He really had more important things to do.

‘It’s about Mia,’ Mikkelson said, and looked at Munch.

‘What about Mia?’

‘Well.’

Mikkelson removed his glasses again.

‘They think she’s a risk. I’ve been told to take her off the case.’

‘Take her off the case? Are you out of your mind? We’ve only just managed to get her to come to Oslo. She didn’t want to, don’t you realizes that? She didn’t want to come, and we talked her into it. Because we’re bunch of selfish bastards. And now you’re kicking her out? Forget it.’

‘Now, now, Munch. I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Well, then, how did you mean it?’

‘I mean…’ Mikkelson put on his glasses again. The frown lines on his forehead looked even deeper now. ‘Well, is she completely… I mean, well, again?’

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ Munch said, getting up. ‘Two girls are being held prisoner somewhere and the Justice Department is worried about Mia’s health? Don’t we have more important things to do?’

‘Watch your mouth, Munch, you’re at work.’

‘Oh, shut up, Mikkelson. The Justice Department? Are you serious? The civil service? The reputation of the civil service? Is that all we care about now? Is that what the Department is worried about? Remind me what the Department thought every time Mia made us look bloody brilliant. The Russian diplomat who liked killing prostitutes. Who made us look good then? Was it you, Mikkelson? Were you there? The two pensioners who were robbed and murdered in their own home in Kolsås. Did you solve that case, Mikkelson? What did the Department think of that?’

Munch got up and headed for the door.

‘I’m perfectly aware of what Mia has done for us,’ Mikkelson said. ‘“The nation is grateful,” is that what you want to hear? ìThank you, thank you, Norway thanks you.î But times change. Bjørn Dæhlie and Vegard Ulvang. Great skiers. Won a heap of medals. But that’s in the past. We wouldn’t enter them in a competition these days, would we? You know what I mean?’

‘Christ on a bike.’ Munch sighed. ‘No, I definitely do not know what you mean. What the hell have langlauf skiers to do with anything? Have you totally lost your perspective? We’re talking about death here, Mikkelson, not grown men in tights trying to be the first to cross a finishing line. Death, Mikkelson. Two six-year-old girls. Don’t you understand?’

Munch grabbed the door handle. He was incandescent with rage.

‘OK, OK,’ Mikkelson said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. She can stay for the time being, but when this case is over she’s out. Do you understand, Munch, then, she’s finished, whatever happens? There’s nothing I can do about it. And…’

Mikkelson opened a drawer and took out a business card.

‘… she has to check in with this guy.’

Mikkelson handed Munch the business card.

‘A psychiatrist?’

Mikkelson nodded.

‘The Justice Department demands it.’

‘Screw you, Mikkelson. Why didn’t you tell me this before I fetched her from the island?’

Mikkelson flung out his arms.

‘Politics.’

‘Politics, my arse.’

He put the business card back on Mikkelson’s desk.

‘She’s not seeing some bloody psychologist.’

‘Psychiatrist.’

‘Oh, shut up. Same difference. She has a job to do. I’ve already said I’ll take responsibility.’

‘It’s not up to you,’ Mikkelson said.

The police commissioner opened his laptop and pressed a sound file. Munch recognized the voices immediately. It was last night’s telephone call between him and Mia:

‘Munch speaking.’

‘Holger. Holger, darling Holger.’

‘Is that you, Mia? What time is it?’

‘It’s not real. It’s just a game. Roger Bakken had one blue and one brown eye. This is where we’re going, Susanne. Yes, just lie down. I’ll help you undress. Do you hear what I’m saying, Holger?’

Mia’s slurred voice. Munch heaved a sigh as Mikkelson turned off the recording.

‘Do we need to listen to any more?’ Mikkelson said.

‘She was drunk, that’s all.’

‘What do you think would happen if the newspapers got hold of this, in your opinion?’

Mikkelson leaned back in his chair.

‘OK,’ Munch said. ‘She’ll see a psychiatrist, all right? Have we finished now?’

‘We’ve finished,’ Mikkelson said.

Munch picked up the business card from the desk and left the office without saying another word.

Chapter 38

Mia was standing outside the hotel, already regretting having agreed to go with Munch to Høvikveien Care Home. She had gone straight back to bed after haing breakfast with Susanne. With a slightly guilty conscience, of course, but she was knackered; the effects of her self-medication on Hitra still lingered in her body. And she was working the whole time, her brain never stopped; whether she lay under her duvet, sat in a car or was down at the office, she was constantly on the job. Her thoughts never left her in peace. For a moment, she fantasized about being back on her island. The sunrise and the sea. She needed more sleep. They had stayed up far too late. Talk to his mother? Surely Munch could handle that on his own? She found a lozenge in her pocket and wondered if she should call him, make up some excuse, but it was too late. She muttered curses under her breath and got in the Audi when it pulled up at the kerb.

Holger Munch looked grim, but Mia didn’t have the energy to ask.

‘You need to get yourself another mobile,’ Munch said.

‘Why?’ Mia said, finding another lozenge in her pocket.

‘You called me last night.’

‘Damn! I thought I might have.’

‘Drunk?’

‘I bumped into an old friend from Åsgårdstrand.’

‘I understand,’ Munch said. ‘You know that all our calls are being monitored, don’t you?’

Mia made no reply. She tried to recall what she had said, but it refused to come back to her. Never mind.

‘So what did you find out?’ Munch wanted to know.

‘Roger Bakken had a female friend. Someone he spent a lot of time with when he was Randi.’

‘Anyone we know?’

Mia shook her head.

‘No, but I believe her eyes are different colours.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Munch, intrigued. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Yes, one blue and one brown. I believe it’s a genetic quirk.’

‘How is that useful?’

‘We have to explore everything, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, true.’

Munch opened the window and lit a cigarette. Mia hated people smoking in cars, especially in the state she was in today, but she didn’t say anything. Munch seemed exhausted. Introverted.

‘Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Mia said. ‘Gabriel managed to retrieve a number from Bakken’s mobile.’

‘Yes, I heard.’ Munch nodded. ‘Veronica Bache. Died in 2010.’

‘Have you found out anything more about her?’

‘Not very much. Last known address was in Vika; lived with her great-grandson, a Benjamin Bache – he’s an actor. Do you know who that is?’

‘No.’

‘Nationaltheatret. Hello magazine. A celeb, as they say.’

Mia mulled over the implications. It was heavy going today. Her brain was treacle. She promised herself yet again not to drink any more. Not until the case was over. If it ever was. She felt drained. For a moment, she was annoyed with herself for letting Susanne disturb her. She should have dived deeper into the evidence instead. She had been on the way. There had been something there, something she hadn’t quite been able to pin down.

‘Someone has been using her mobile for two years. Paid every bill so the contract was never terminated – that must be what happened, am I right?’ Mia said.

‘Yes, that’s the only way.’ Munch nodded.

‘So what do you think? The great-grandson with access to the bills? The actor?’

‘It’s a possibility, certainly. I tried to get hold of him today, but he was going to some kind of rehearsal. We’ll need to talk to him at the earliest opportunity.’

‘How’s the lung cancer?’ Mia said, opening her window.

‘You should talk,’ Munch snapped. ‘I don’t drink, I don’t…’

‘… touch coffee, so, for Christ’s sake, I must be allowed a cigarette. I know.’ Mia laughed.

‘You’re very cheerful today, why?’

‘No reason,’ Mia said. ‘I think I’m on to something. Maybe.’

‘What?’

Munch turned off Drammensveien and on to Høvikveien.

‘You know all the symbolism?’ Mia continued.

‘Yes?’

‘Wouldn’t you say that it’s a bit obvious?’

‘Possibly,’ Munch said. ‘That’s your area of expertise.’

‘No, seriously, Holger, I mean it.’

‘Yes, I understand, only I can’t follow all the twists and turns of your brain. It makes me dizzy.’

He muttered this last as he drew up outside Høvikveien Care Home.

‘Here we go.’ He sighed, turning off the ignition.

Mia was convinced that, if he had been a Christian, he would have made the sign of the cross. It was clear that Holger Munch was dreading this conversation.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Mia said. ‘Just relax.’

‘I need one more cigarette,’ Munch said, and got out of the car.

Mia followed him and took off her sunglasses. She was starting to feel slightly better. And being here in Høvik was fine. She was glad she had come with him after all.

‘Go on, try me,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.

‘Now?’

‘Yes, why not? Make me see inside your head.’

‘OK,’ Mia said, sitting down on the bonnet. ‘What was the first sign he left us?’

‘I thought we were looking for a woman?’

‘Never mind that now. What was the first clue?’

Munch shrugged his shoulders.

‘The dresses?’

‘No.’

‘The satchels?’

‘No.’

‘Mark 10:14, ìsuffer the little childrenî?’

‘No.’

‘Go on, then, enlighten me.’

Munch sighed and took another drag on his cigarette.

‘Toni J. W. Smith,’ Mia said.

‘And why is that the first clue?’

‘Because it doesn’t quite fit. Everything else fits, doesn’t it? It’s a part of the bigger picture, but it’s not what we need to look at. We need to look beyond it.’

‘Aha!’ Munch said, clearly intrigued now.

‘So the first clue which didn’t fit?’

‘The name on the book?’

‘Exactly. A clear sign, wouldn’t you say?’

‘A sign of what?’

‘Of intent, Holger. Come on, try harder.’

‘Intent?’

‘Oh, I give up.’ Mia sighed.

Holger took another long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke at the spring sun.

‘OK, intent,’ Munch said. ‘All the other symbols are fake. Washing the girls. The dresses. The school items. Toni J. W. Smith was invented by a someone with an agenda? By someone with a plan?’

‘Good, Holger.’ Mia clapped her hands somewhat ironically.

‘Yes, yes, I haven’t lost it completely.’

‘And what does Toni J. W. Smith mean?’

‘Hønefoss.’

‘Precisely. And what about the other symbols?’

‘The pig’s blood?’

‘No, that’s the third.’

‘What was the second?’

‘Do you remember Roger Bakken’s three text messages?’

‘Yes?’

‘Which one of them didn’t fit?’

‘Did any of them fit?’

‘Yes, of course. Try again, Holger. Icarus flew too near the sun. Eagle wings. Bye Bye Birdie, a gay musical. Roger Bakken was a gay man with a bird tattoo. Everything fits, but not “Who’s there?” It’s the odd one out.’

‘That was clue number two? “Who’s there?”’

Mia nodded.

‘And what does that mean?’

‘I’m not sure, but I discovered yesterday that it’s the opening line of Hamlet.’

Munch lit another cigarette and glanced nervously towards the entrance. Mia was sorely tempted to laugh. A grown man, the head of a special unit, and yet he was frightened to confront his own mother.

‘And Hamlet is about to open at Nationaltheatret? Veronica Bache’s mobile? Her great-grandson? Is that where we should be looking?’

‘Not sure,’ Mia said, and thought about it. ‘I’ve worked out what we should be looking for, but not why. That’s as far as I’ve got.’

‘And the pig’s blood is number three?’

Mia nodded.

‘And that means what?’

‘I did say I hadn’t got that far,’ Mia said, and found a lozenge in her pocket. ‘Are we going inside, or are we going to stand out here all day? If we get bored, we could always pay a visit to Ballerud Golf Course.’

Mia pointed to a sign across the road.

‘What do you mean?’ Munch said.

‘It’s a funny name, don’t you think? Ballerud Golf Course?’

Munch shook his head. He had no idea why she was in such a cheerful mood; he wasn’t in on the joke, nor did he think there was anything worth joking about. He stubbed out his freshly lit cigarette and led the way up the steps and into the care home.

Chapter 39

There could be little doubt that Høvikveien Care Home was a facility for the more affluent. A typical west Oslo place, Mia thought as they walked through the doors and into the light, airy reception area. The place was spotless. Clean and pleasant, with new furniture, modern light fittings, original prints on the walls. Mia recognized several of the artists. Her mother, Eva, had been very interested in art and taken the girls to a wide range of exhibitions whenever the opportunity arose.

There were photographs of different activities on the walls. A display cabinet filled with trophies. Trips around Norway and abroad. Bridge tournaments. Bowling. Even though it was the last stop on life’s journey, there was nothing here to suggest it. At Høvikveien Care Home life was not over until you had swum in the Dead Sea or won a prize for growing pumpkins.

‘Wish me luck,’ Holger sighed as he disappeared down one of the corridors.

To a private room, Mia guessed. With an en suite bathroom, television, radio and round-the-clock service. None of the elderly residents here would ever have to lie for days in a soiled nappy without food or water. She sat down in one of the armchairs and found a magazine. 60Plus – ‘the magazine for your best years’. ‘Light exercise prevents dementia.’

‘Toppen Bech’s lipstick matches her car.’ Mia could well imagine what her grandmother would have had to say about a place like this, and to such magazines, and smiled at the thought. She put down the magazine and was about to pick up another when she noticed a certificate on the wall. ‘Høvikveien Care Home 2009 Canasta Christmas Tournament. Winner: Veronica Bache.’ Mia got up to have a closer look. Yes, indeed, it was Veronica Bache. It had to be the same woman. She went over to the glass counter and rang a small bell. A few seconds later, one of the carers appeared from a back office.

‘Hi, can I help you?’

The carer matched the rest of the care home. Gentle, pretty, with glowing cheeks. Perhaps they only hired people who matched the interior design. No worn-out staff clustered behind the kitchen puffing on roll-ups here. The woman was about her age. Good posture and attractive, with bright-blue eyes and her black hair scraped back in a swishy pony tail.

‘My name is Mia Krüger,’ Mia said.

She considered producing her warrant card, but decided against it.

‘I’m Malin. And who are you here to see?’ the gentle girl said.

‘I’m here with a friend, Holger Munch. He’s visiting his mother.’

‘Hildur, yes.’ The girl with the blue eyes smiled. ‘Great lady.’

‘Absolutely.’ Mia nodded. ‘I couldn’t help noticing that Hildur’s friend, Veronica, won the canasta tournament. It says so on one of the certificates over there.’

‘That’s right.’ The girl smiled. ‘We have a tournament every Christmas. I think Veronica won the last three before she passed.’

‘I’ve never played canasta,’ Mia said.

‘Me neither.’ The soft-spoken girl winked at her. ‘But the old people seem to enjoy it.’

‘That’s the most important thing.’ Mia smiled. ‘Listen, something has occurred to me, and pardon me for asking, because you might not be allowed to tell me, but was Bache related to that good-looking actor, by any chance?’

‘Benjamin Bache?’

‘Yes, that’s the one.’

The girl with the blue eyes looked at her for a moment.

‘Hmmm, I’m not supposed to say anything,’ she said.

‘I understand.’ Mia nodded. ‘Did he used to visit often? Did you see him? Is he just as handsome in real life?’

The woman with the ponytail smiled.

‘He didn’t come here that often, just a few times a year. And, just between us, he’s better-looking on TV.’

She giggled.

‘I see.’ Mia smiled.

‘Would you like a coffee while you wait? I’m just about to start the lunch round, so I don’t mind making a cup for you if you’d like one?’

‘No, I’m all right. But thanks,’ Mia said, and went back to her chair.

The woman with the blue eyes smiled again, and disappeared into the back office. There was a small television in one corner. Mia looked for the remote control and found it next to the screen.

They had scheduled a press conference for today at noon. Mia Krüger was thrilled that she had got out of that part of the job. The media. She had a strained relationship with journalists and never felt at ease in their presence. It was almost as if you had to have two faces, never say what you were really thinking – and that was her problem. It went against the grain. She liked being straightforward. She guessed it was the same with the theatre. Some people loved the limelight; others would do anything to avoid it. She turned up the volume slightly and changed channels to NRK. ‘Babes in the wood’. The channel’s logo was not quite as obvious here as elsewhere, but it was on the screen. Mia Krüger shook her head and turned up the volume another notch. Two anchor men in the studio, a reporter in front of the stairs at Grønland. The press conference would appear to have been postponed. Mia turned off the TV again, went outside and rang Gabriel’s number.

‘Hi?’

‘Why has it been postponed? Has anything happened?’

‘No, we’re about to begin.’

‘Will Anette be taking it today?’

‘Yes, I think so, along with the public prosecutor. The one with the short hair.’

‘Hilde.’

‘Might be.’

‘Did you discover anything else about Veronica Bache?’

‘Was I supposed to?’

‘No, but I’ve stumbled across something,’ Mia continued. ‘Please would you check it out for me?’

Gabriel sighed.

‘Of course. What is it?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, only, it’s a lot to get your head round. And besides…’

‘And besides what?’

‘No, it’s nothing. My girlfriend is pregnant.’

‘Is she? Congratulations.’

‘Er, thank you… What did you want me to look up for you?’

‘I’m not quite sure, it’s just a hunch I have. I would like access to Høvikveien Care Home’s Ö now, what do you call it…?’

‘Waiting list? Are you thinking of moving in?’

‘Good God, it didn’t take you long to settle in.’ Mia laughed.

‘Sorry,’ Gabriel said. ‘I’m having a bit of a crap day.’

‘Well, don’t take it out on me. It’s not my fault that your girlfriend is pregnant,’ Mia teased him. ‘You only have yourself to blame for that.’

‘Yes, I guess so. Is it normal to want things in the middle of the night?’

‘What things?’

‘Soft ice.’

‘I’ve heard rumours that pregnant women get bizarre cravings,’ Mia said.

‘Have you any idea just how difficult it is to find soft ice in the middle of the night?’

Mia laughed.

‘That’s right, ha-bloody-ha,’ Gabriel said.

The young man was clearly not in the best of moods.

‘No, I mean a list of staff. And guests.’

‘Guests?’

‘Or whatever you call people who live in a care home. Inmates? Residents?’

‘I know what you mean. I think we refer to them as staff and clients.’

‘Great, can you get it for me?’

‘Legally?’

‘No.’

‘If I get into trouble for this, I expect you to cover my back.’

‘You’ve been on that course with Hat-trick, I can tell.’

‘Yes, indeed I have.’ Gabriel sighed.

‘Of course I’ll take responsibility,’ Mia said. ‘Høvikveien Care Home. Do you need the address?’

‘No, I can look it up. Am I looking for anything in particular?’

‘No idea. Like I said, it was just a hunch. Munch’s mother and Veronica Bache lived at the same care home. I mean, it’s worth checking out.’

‘Munch’s mother?’

‘Did I say that out loud?’

‘Damn, am I going to have to lie to Munch now?’ Gabriel sighed. ‘I don’t suppose he’s meant to know anything about this.’

‘Good boy,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve got to run. When’s our next full briefing?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Good, talk to you later.’

Mia ended the call just as Munch appeared on the steps. She was about to join him, but stopped when she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A female carer in the same white uniform as the girl with the blue eyes was standing next to him. Pretty and slim with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair. She laughed out loud and touched Munch, who, for his part, acted like a teenager, his cheeks flushed and his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. Mia popped a lozenge into her mouth and wandered to one side. Munch and the carer with the strawberry blonde hair exchanged a few comments, then she touched him again before disappearing back inside with a smile.

‘How did it go?’ Mia asked when Munch came down to the car.

‘Don’t ask,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.

‘Who was she?’

‘Who?’ Munch asked.

‘Who do you think?’

Munch got into the car without putting out his cigarette.

‘Oh, her. That’s… I think she’s called Karen. She looks after my mother. I just had to…’

Munch started the car and pulled out on Høvikveien.

‘Yes? You just had to what?’

‘Any news?’ Munch said, changing the subject.

‘The press conference is on now.’

Munch turned on the radio. Mia heard Anette’s voice: ‘No news, we’re still looking. We would welcome any information.’ They had nothing new to announce. Even so, the world demanded a press conference. Mia glanced at Munch, who was still lost in a world of his own. She wondered if she should tell him that Veronica Bache had shared a care home with his mother, but decided to let it lie for now. Gabriel was on the case and Munch looked as if he had enough on his plate.

‘You have to see a psychologist,’ Munch said out of the blue when they were back on Drammensveien.

‘What do you mean?’

Munch took out the business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

‘You have to see a psychologist.’

‘Says who?’

‘Mikkelson.’

‘Screw that.’

‘Don’t look at me. They heard your call last night. They don’t think you’re all there.’

‘Well, they can forget about that,’ Mia snarled.

‘That’s exactly what I told them.’

‘Then we agree.’

Mia opened the glove compartment and chucked the business card in it without looking at it.

‘Bloody cheek.’

‘What had you expected?’

‘How about a bit of respect?’

‘Good luck with that.’ Munch sighed. ‘Why don’t we stop for a burger on the way back?’

‘Fine by me,’ Mia said.

Munch found an exit and pulled up at a petrol station, just as it started to rain.

Chapter 40

The rain was tipping down outside the windows of Aftenposten’s editorial offices at Postgirobygget. They had gathered in Grung’s office to watch the press conference, which had been scheduled for noon but been postponed for ten minutes. Present were Mikkel Wold, Silje Olsen, Erik Rønning and Grung, their editor, and although Mikkel did not like to think of it in such terms, for once he had been given the VIP seat, a leather chair next to Grung. There had been a shift since that phone call at Skullerud. He had moved up the ranks. Suddenly, he was at the centre of events. Grung turned down the TV volume and opened the meeting.

They had kept it in house that the killer had contacted them. They had not run a story on it. Not yet. This was the agenda for the meeting. Should they use it? And, if they did, then how?

‘I say we wait,’ Silje said, taking a bite of her apple.

‘Why?’ Grung said.

‘Because we don’t know if he or she will go underground if we go public with it.’

‘I say we run it. Why the hell not?’ Erik said.

The twenty-six-year-old, highly talented journalist had been the apple of Grung’s eye ever since he first hired him, and he usually got the chair which Mikkel was now occupying. If the young lad was jealous or envious, he was hiding it well. He sat relaxed, his legs apart, but he was playing with a rubber stress ball.

‘What’s to stop her from calling VG tomorrow? Or Dagbladet tonight?’ he went on. ‘We have the chance of a scoop, but we have to act now.’

Mikkel Wold rolled his eyes. Erik had started using the word ‘scoop’ quite a lot after winning the Scoop Prize last year for a series of features about the homeless in Oslo.

‘So why hasn’t she called them already?’ Silje sparred.

Silje and Erik were like day and night. She: twenty-something, loud, pierced lip and vociferous, left-wing liberal views, certainly for someone working for Aftenposten. He: calm, level-headed, usually dressed in a suit, water combed hair, every mother-in-law’s dream, with a pleasing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Whenever there was a discussion at the office, the two of them were usually on opposite sides of the argument.

Mikkel Wold was more a journalist of the old school. Notepad and paper and close to his sources; he had never written about anything or anyone he had not met in person or at least been in contact with. These days, it was mostly in the form of a press release and a quick phone call; sometimes not even a quick phone call. In terms of dress style, he sided neither with Silje nor Erik. He was halfway between the two and perhaps he was a little dull. He wondered about it sometimes. If he should make the effort to buy some smarter clothes, which would – now, what was it the magazine his sister always had on display – ‘bring out his personality’. But he never had. The clothes in his wardrobe had been there for almost ten years. It was because – he didn’t quite know how to put it – well, because a vain, self-obsessed appearance, whatever your style of choice, just didn’t fit in with a serious job like his. And he had been proved right. The killer had called him. Not one of the others.

‘You’re right,’ Erik said. ‘Let’s run the risk.’

‘Oh, please, Erik, passive-aggressive arguing is the preserve of us ladies, isn’t that right?’

‘Was I being passive aggressive just now?’

‘Oh, Jesus, give me a break.’ Silje laughed.

‘What do you think, Mikkel?’ Grung said, turning to him.

For once, the other two fell silent. Everyone wanted to know his opinion. He was loath to admit it, but mysterious caller had inadvertently done him a favour.

‘I’m not sure.’ Mikkel cleared his throat. ‘On the one hand, I know that we could run a story on it, no doubt about it.’

‘And it would be an exclusive,’ Erik interjected, rolling the stress ball along the table in front of him. ‘Just us. No one else. I say go.’

‘But on the other hand,’ Mikkel continued, ‘it would be silly to blow it on a headline or two and then lose the source. We might actually be able to help.’

There was silence around the table again.

‘Help?’ Silje said. ‘Do you mean, go to the cops?’

‘The police.’ Grung sighed. ‘This isn’t the Socialist Worker, you know. We work for Aftenposten.’

‘Does that mean we can’t call them cops?’ Silje argued back and took another bite of her apple.

‘Whatever,’ Grung said. ‘It’s something we have to make a decision about.’

‘What is?’ Erik asked.

‘If we go to the police with what we know.’

‘What good would that do?’ Erik sighed. ‘Number one: we haven’t got anything. No hard evidence. Not something the police can use – but we can, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘It feels strange to hear myself say it but, on this point, I actually agree with Erik. Not that we shouldn’t go to the cops…’ Silje nodded.

‘The police,’ Grung corrected her.

‘… but that we don’t have anything they can use. Not yet.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Erik nodded.

‘But that doesn’t mean we should blow it. If we run the story now, who knows what we’ll lose out on? And besides, hello! Three days ago? Old news?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Erik interrupted her. ‘It’s still fresh.’

‘Shhh, it’s starting,’ Grung said, turning up the volume on the TV.

It was Anette Goli who was giving the press conference today, together with Heidi Simonsen, the public prosecutor.

‘Goli and Simonsen,’ Erik said with a sigh, and started fidgeting with his stress ball again. ‘Why don’t they bring out Munch or Krüger? I fancy writing another feature on Krüger.’

‘Hah.’ Silje laughed scornfully. ‘We all know what you fancy doing to Krüger. A feature? Is that what they call it now?’

‘Hush,’ Grung said, turning up the volume even more.

Anette Goli had just welcomed everyone to the press conference when Mikkel Wold’s phone rang. The meeting room fell completely quiet.

Unknown number.

‘Let it ring twice!’

‘Answer it!’ said Erik and Silje in unison. Grung pressed the mute button on the remote control and mimed ‘Put it on speaker’ to Mikkel Wold. Mikkel sat up in his chair, cleared his throat and answered the call.

‘Yes, hello. Mikkel Wold, Aftenposten.’

Crackling noises in the handset. They couldn’t hear anyone at the other end.

‘Wold, Aftenposten,’ Mikkel said again, rather more nervous now.

Still nothing. Just hissing.

‘Is anyone there?’ Erik said impatiently.

Grung and Silje both grimaced.

‘Shut up,’ Grung mouthed across the table.

A few seconds passed. Then a grating, metallic voice could be heard.

‘We’re not alone, I gather?’

Even Erik fell quiet at this; he had also stopped messing about with his rubber ball, just sat with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. To a large extent, they had assumed that it must be a prank. The killer calling – what was that about? Every journalist’s dream, surely, and why should Wold be the lucky one? Now, there could be no doubt. This was real. Silje spat out the apple bite and placed it carefully on the desk.

‘No,’ Wold said. ‘You’re on speakerphone.’

‘Good heavens, what an honour,’ the metallic voice said archly. ‘Aftenposten listens to its readers, but that’s quite all right: it means more of you can take responsibility.’

‘For what?’ Mikkel Wold croaked.

‘We’ll get to that later,’ the voice said. ‘By the way, I thought you were going to the press conference. Didn’t you have a question to ask?’

‘Why did the pig drip on the floor?’ Wold said nervously.

‘Good boy, you remembered it,’ the voice said.

‘I know how to do my job. I don’t ask questions I didn’t come up with and can’t explain,’ Wold said.

He looked across to Grung, who was frantically shaking his head to signal that Wold had given the wrong answer. They had to play along with the caller, not antagonize him or her; they had agreed that in advance. There was silence at the other end.

‘A journalist with integrity,’ the voice laughed after a lengthy pause.

‘Yes,’ Mikkel said.

‘You’re very sweet,’ the voice said scornfully. ‘But everyone knows there’s no such thing as a journalist with integrity. It’s just something you like to think you have. You are aware, aren’t you, that journalists came bottom in a survey last year? About which professions we trust? You were beaten by lawyers, advertising agencies and second-hand-car salesmen. Did you not see it?’

The metallic voice laughed again, almost heartily this time. Erik Rønning shook his head and made a rude gesture at the mobile on the table. Grung glared furiously at him.

‘But that’s not why we’re here,’ the voice said icily.

‘So why are we here?’ Mikkel Wold demanded to know.

‘My, my, you are on form tonight. Did you think of that question all by yourself?’

‘Stop messing about,’ Erik burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘How do we know you’re not just some time-wasting weirdo who likes playing games?’

Grung’s face turned puce. Unable to control himself, he kicked out at Erik under the table. Another silence followed, but the voice did not go away.

‘That’s a good question,’ the voice said dryly. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

‘Erik Rønning,’ Erik said.

‘Good heavens! Would you believe it, Erik Rønning himself! The winner of the 2011 Scoop Prize. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ Erik said.

‘How does it feel to write about the homeless before going home to Frogner to drink Chardonnay in the hot tub? You call that journalistic integrity?’

Erik was about to say something, but thought better of it.

‘But, obviously, Rønning, you’re quite right. How can you be sure that I am who I say I am? Why don’t we play a little game?’

‘What kind of game?’ Erik cleared his throat.

‘I call it Being in the News. Want to play?’

There was total silence around the table. No one dared to say a word.

‘Why don’t I explain the rules before you make up your mind?’ the metallic voice said. ‘You lot always report the news, so I thought you might be getting a little bored. Why not be the news for once? How is that for a kick?’

‘What does it involve?’ Mikkel Wold asked.

‘You get to decide,’ the voice said.

‘What do we get to decide?’

‘Who lives and who dies.’

The four journalists stared at each other.

‘What do you mean?’

The voice laughed briefly.

‘What do you think I mean? I have yet to make up my mind. Andrea or Karoline? You get to decide. How cool is that? I’m letting you join in.’

‘Y-you can’t be serious,’ Silje said.

‘Oh, a girl as well, how nice. Who are you?’

‘S-S-Silje Olsen,’ Silje stuttered.

She was clearly intimidated by the gravity of the situation.

‘So what do you make of it all, Silje Olsen?’ the voice said.

‘What do I make of what?’

The voice laughed briefly again.

‘A woman. Do you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ Silje said tentatively.

‘You’re so naive. It’s very simple. It’s far too simple, really. I’m bored. I really am. This is boring. I had expected more of a challenge. Come on, Mikkel, did you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ Mikkel said, having paused to think about it.

‘Oh, please, do I have to be better than anyone else? A woman. A pensioner claims to have seen a woman. How about a transvestite? Did anyone think of that? How about a homeless person? Erik, that’s your area? What do you think a homeless person would do for two thousand kroner? Put on a hoodie and turn up in a street in Skullerud in the middle of the night, especially if they get a lift there and back? Would you have said yes, Erik, if you were homeless?’

‘You’re not a woman, is that what you’re telling us?’ Erik said feebly.

‘Christ Almighty, you’re so much more stupid than I had expected,’ the chilling voice said. ‘I actually had some faith in you. Never mind. OK, this is how we play. You have one minute to pick a name. Andrea or Karoline. Whoever you pick will die tonight. The other gets to live. She’ll be returned to her home within twenty-four hours. If you don’t give me a name, they both die. It makes no difference to me. One will die. One will live. You decide. Are you clear about the rules?’

‘But you can’t do this,’ Grung protested.

‘I’ll call you back in one minute. Good luck.’

‘N-n-no,’ Silje stuttered.

‘Tick-tock,’ the voice said, and ended the call.

Chapter 41

Lukas was in heaven. Or, at least, it felt like it. He had been looking forward to this visit for days: his third to the house in the forest. Lux Domus, ‘the House of Light’, or, as Pastor Simon liked to call it, Porta Caeli, ‘Heaven’s Gate’. How was it possible for anything to be so beautiful? Porta Caeli. Heaven’s Gate. His body had been tingling with excitement all day and, finally, they had arrived; he was so near to heaven he could barely contain himself, but he forced himself to sit completely still on the spindle-back chair by the window while the pastor read to the children.

God had spoken to the pastor. Told him to build this place. A new ark. Not for animals this time, but for his chosen people. The initiated. The House of Light. Heaven’s Gate. They would travel together on the Day of Judgement. No one else. Only them. Forty people, no more. There were several arks across the world, God had said to the pastor, but they had not been told where the others were. Only that they existed, that was enough; they would meet the other chosen ones in Heaven, so there was no rush. In Heaven. God’s kingdom. Where turquoise water flowed in fresh streams and everything was made of gold, on a carpet of bright, white clouds. Eternity. The chosen ones. For ever.

Lukas closed his eyes and let the pastor’s voice fill him. God’s voice, that was what it was. The children mattered most, God had said, they were pure; it was important that children were pure and clean, as innocent as they had been in their mother’s womb, not tarnished after years on earth, no: pure, they must be purified. Even if it took fire. The flames of hell. The pastor spoke with a mild and calm voice, firm like God’s own hand, hard on the outside and soft on the inside. Water was flowing inside Lukas’s head now. Clean, fresh rivers winding their way through green forests and across white fields in front of a house of gold.

‘My children, I will manifest myself in front of you to guide my people from the darkness to the light,’ the pastor said. ‘I will reveal the reality of hell, so that you can be saved and renounce your evil ways before it is too late. Your souls will be taken from your bodies, by me, the Lord Jesus Christ, and sent into Hell. I will also offer you visions of Heaven, and many other revelations.’

The pastor fell silent and gazed across the congregation. He liked doing this. Looking into everyone’s eyes. It was important. So that they could see God’s eyes behind his. Lukas opened his own eyes and smiled. His house would lie right next to the pastor’s, God himself had promised that. There were not all that many children here: only eight. The pastor had chosen them himself. Five girls and three boys, almost entirely pure; a few sessions with the pastor’s kind voice and they would be ready.

Lukas looked around to see if Rakel, the special girl, was here. The children looked very similar – that was the point: we are all equal before God – but he spotted her eventually. Blue eyes and plenty of freckles. They had had a few problems with her. Lukas could not understand why the pastor made such a fuss of one little girl. What made her so special? If she wanted to run away from the House of Light and spend eternity in Hell, then let her go. Why waste time on her? There were plenty of other good candidates in the congregation.

It was not an opinion he had voiced, obviously. The pastor always knew what was best. Why had he even had this thought to begin with? Lukas shook his head at his own idiocy and closed his eyes again. Once more, the pastor’s voice filled him. He pressed his lips together hard so as not to emit even a small sigh.

‘One night as I was praying in my house, I was visited by the Lord Jesus Christ,’ the pastor continued. ‘I had been deep in prayer for days, and suddenly I felt God come to me. His strength and glory filled the whole house. A brilliant light lit up the room around me, and I was overcome by a feeling of beauty and completeness. The light flooded in, rolling in and out like waves. It was a wondrous sight. And then the Lord started talking to me. He said: “I am your Lord Jesus Christ, and I will reveal to you how you should prepare the faithful for my return and how to punish the sinners. The forces of darkness are real and my judgement is true. My child, I will take you into Hell with the strength of my spirit and I will show you many things that I want the world to see. I will reveal myself to you many times; I will take your spirit out of your body and I will take you into Hell.” “Dear Lord,” I cried out, “what do you want me to do?” My whole being wanted to call out to Jesus in gratitude at his presence. It was the most beautiful, serene, blissful, powerful love I have ever felt. Praises of God flowed from my lips. Immediately, I wanted to devote my whole life to him, so that he could use it to save others from their sin. I knew, by his spirit, that it really was Jesus, the Son of God, who was in the room with me. “Look, my child,” Jesus said, “with my Spirit I will take you into Hell, so you can describe it, so that you can lead the lost souls out of the darkness and into the light of the Gospel of Jesus Christ!” Straight away, my soul was taken out of my body. Then I travelled with Jesus out of my house and up to Heaven.’

The pastor rose and told the children to do likewise. They formed a circle in the middle of the floor. The pastor nodded to Lukas to indicate that he should join them. Lukas rose softly from his chair and took two of the children by the hand.

‘Let us pray,’ the pastor said, and bowed his head.

Soon, the small room was full of murmuring voices.

‘“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

‘Amen,’ Lukas said again. He couldn’t help himself.

Porta Caeli, Heaven’s Gate. And now they were here to prepare for the day that would soon arrive.

The pastor opened the door and let out all the children. All except Rakel. He always kept Rakel back for an extra chat. Perhaps it was like the lamb that had got separated from the flock? Of course it was. The lost sheep and the shepherd. Yet again, Lukas felt bad for having doubted the pastor’s wisdom.

‘I think that Rakel needs a little time alone with God, and with me,’ the pastor said, and signalled to Lukas to leave the room.

Lukas nodded, smiled and left.

‘Make sure that no one comes in and disturbs us, would you, Lukas?’

‘Of course,’ Lukas said with a bow.

He closed the door softly behind him. It had started to grow dark outside now; he could see stars in the sky. He smiled broadly to himself and felt another warm rush through his veins. That was where they were going. To Heaven. He could hardly wait. He was so looking forward to it; indeed, it was hard to describe how excited he was. A huge, wonderful, constantly tingling feeling from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and into his toes. Turquoise rivers and houses made from gold. Was that really possible? That he could be so blessed? Lukas folded his arms across his chest, still grinning from ear to ear and started humming a new hymn he had just taught himself.

Chapter 42

It was undoubtedly the longest minute in Mikkel Wold’s life. And the shortest. The shortest and the longest minute. It was as if time had stopped. And yet it was slipping away between his fingers. Time had acquired a new meaning. Time had no meaning. They spent the first five seconds just staring at one another. Mikkel looked at Silje, whose jaw had dropped and whose eyes looked like they had just seen a UFO. Silje stared desperately at Grung, a young member of the flock seeking comfort from one of the older ones, but there was no help to be found in Grung; the normally so resourceful editor stared alternately at the mobile lying on the table between them and Mikkel Wold, who was now looking at Erik Rønning.

Erik had ground to a halt. He was no longer functioning. There was not a single movement or expression to be found in his face. The rubber ball sat half squeezed in his hand. His mouth was half open; a witty or sarcastic comment had stopped on its journey out into the room and was now going back inside his head. All four of them. Dumbstruck. Frozen. In total shock. So went the first five seconds.

The next fifteen seconds were the total opposite. Everyone started talking over one another. Like four children in a tunnel who had just realized that the goods train was coming towards them and that they couldn’t get off the railway tracks, there was just one way out and that was to run, even though, deep down, everyone knew it could only end in tragedy, but still they ran out of instinct. Random words bounced around the room.

‘Christ Almighty.’

‘We have to pick one.’

‘Jesus.’

‘What if it’s a hoax?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

‘But what the hell, we can’t just…?’

‘What if we don’t pick one?’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘We have to pick one.’

‘We can’t.’

‘This can’t be happening.’

‘Grung?’

‘Mikkel?’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘We can’t kill another human being.’

‘I think I’m going to throw up. I feel sick.’

‘We can save a human being.’

‘Erik?’

‘Silje?’

‘What happens if we do nothing?’

‘They both die.’

‘We can’t kill a little girl.’

‘Shit.’

‘We can save a little girl.’

‘Shit.’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘Shit.’

Twenty seconds had passed now. The clock in the office had no hand for seconds. It still said 12.16. It wasn’t helping. It didn’t count the seconds. That was the one thing they needed right now: not hours, not minutes, just seconds. The next ten were spent trying to work out how much time had passed. At this point, panic was spreading around the room like wildfire.

‘How much time has passed?’

Silje’s face was deathly pale.

‘How much time is left?’

Grung had stood up and was resting the palms of his hands against the table.

‘Did someone make a note of the time?’

Mikkel Wold looked his mobile, at the clock on the wall; without the second hand the numbers might as well have been painted on the wall. Four children on the railway tracks in a tunnel who can feel the vibrations of the train thundering towards them.

‘Let’s not waste time working out how much time has passed!’

Erik had got up, too, and banged his fist against the table. Once. Twice. Three times.

‘Let’s not waste time working out how much time has passed!’

Grung had moved his hands from the table and started pulling at his hair.

‘How much time has passed?’

This part took ten seconds. By now, thirty seconds had passed.

‘We have to think now!’ Erik shouted. ‘There’s no point shouting over each other.’

‘We can’t just shout each other down!’ Silje shouted.

‘We must decide!’ Mikkel Wold shouted.

‘What are we going to do?’ Grung shouted, still tearing his hair out.

‘Everyone, calm down!’ Erik shouted.

‘Let’s all calm down!’ Silje shouted.

By now, forty seconds had passed. Every single one of the last twenty seconds had felt like an entire minute in itself. Or an hour. Or a whole year. It was as if the hands had stopped moving and yet were running away at the same time. Erik was the first person to make a sensible suggestion.

‘Let’s vote.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say anything. We’re voting now. Hands up everyone who thinks we ought to do something.’

Erik held up his hand. Grung held up his hand. Mikkel Wold held up his hand without quite knowing why; his reaction was pure reflex. Silje’s hands remained on the desk.

Forty-nine seconds had passed.

‘Three against one.’

‘But-’ Silje protested, but Erik was not listening to her.

‘Hands up everyone who votes to save Karoline.’

‘You mean, kill Andrea?’ Silje wailed.

‘Hands up!’ Erik shouted.

By now fifty-three seconds had passed.

‘Hands up if you think we ought to save Karoline!’ Erik shouted again, desperate now; the train was nipping at his heels, this was the only way out, make it stop or derail it.

He raised his hand and stared at Grung. Grung copied him and looked desperately at Silje.

‘No,’ Silje sobbed. ‘No, no, no.’

By now, fifty-seven seconds had passed.

Grung and Erik were standing with their hands in the air now. They both looked at Mikkel Wold.

‘Yes or no?’ Erik demanded.

Mikkel Wold tried to raise his arm from his lap, but it refused to move. It felt leaden. His arm had never been that heavy before. It refused to obey him. Or maybe that was exactly what it was doing. His brain didn’t know.

By now, fifty-nine seconds had passed.

‘Come on!’ Erik roared. ‘Do we save Karoline or not?’

‘We kill Andrea,’ Silje sobbed. ‘We can’t do that.’

‘Yes or no?’ Grung bellowed.

He had clumps of hair in the hand which was raised in the air. Mikkel Wold tried to lift his hand again, but it was still stuck to his lap.

Then his mobile rang.

The room fell completely silent. Their time was up. The mobile rang again. Mikkel Wold was staring at it, yet he had no idea where it was. He couldn’t see it clearly. It could have been in another room. On the moon. He didn’t know what to do. Finally, Erik Rønning leaned over and pressed the screen.

‘Hello, again,’ the metallic voice said.

There was total silence around the table.

‘I’m very excited,’ the voice said. ‘What did you decide?’

None of them was capable of uttering a single word.

‘Is anyone there?’ the voice asked.

Silje looked at Grung, who looked at Erik, who looked at Mikkel Wold, who looked at his fingers.

The metallic voice cackled.

‘Has the cat got your tongue? I need an answer now. Time is running out. Tick-tock.’

Erik Rønning cleared his throat.

‘We…’

‘Andrea?’ the chilling voice asked. ‘Or Karoline? Who gets to go home? One girl dies, one girl lives. How hard can it be?’

‘They both live,’ Silje sobbed.

The metallic voice laughed again.

‘Oh no, Miss Olsen, that’s not how we play. One lives, one dies. You get to decide who lives and who dies. It feels good, doesn’t it? Being master of life and death. It’s a bit like being God. Isn’t it fun to play God, Rønning?’

The room fell completely silent again. The seconds crawled past at a snail’s pace. Mikkel Wold’s brain had stopped working. Silje was hugging herself. Grung was standing up, with both hands in the air. Erik Rønning opened his mouth and was just about to say something.

‘Right,’ the cold voice said. ‘Both of them it is. It’s a shame really, but if that’s what you want, who am I to argue? Thanks for playing.’

‘No,’ Silje cried out, and lunged for the phone with both hands, a last desperate attempt to knock some humanity into the icy, metallic being, but it was too late.

The voice had already gone.

Chapter 43

Mia Krüger was sitting on the smoking terrace watching Munch destroy his lungs. They had just finished today’s briefing and Munch was in a particularly bad mood.

‘How is that possible?’ he kept repeating, rubbing his eyes.

None of the team had slept much in the past week, but Munch looked as if he might have slept even less than the others. Mia had been waiting for the right moment to tell him what was on her mind, but she was having second thoughts. She couldn’t be sure. It was just a hunch. But a hunch which had grown stronger as the day went by.

‘How is that possible?’ Munch said again, lighting his next cigarette with his current one.

‘What are you talking about?’ Mia said, taking out a lozenge from her jacket pocket.

‘Eh?’ Munch grunted, turning to her.

When he realized who he was talking to, his eyes softened.

‘All of it,’ he said, rubbing his eyes again. ‘Surely someone must have seen them? Two six-year-old girls don’t just vanish into thin air.’

‘Have we had a ransom demand yet?’

‘We’ve had bugger all. The families have offered a reward of half a million, I believe. You would have thought that amount of money would make someone come forward.’

‘Will they increase it to a million?’

Munch nodded.

‘They’re announcing it tomorrow. We’ll just have to cross our fingers.’

‘… and hope that not every nutter in the world jams our switchboard,’ Mia said.

‘That’s the risk we run,’ Munch sighed, taking a long drag of his cigarette. ‘Did you manage to contact Benjamin Bache?’

Mia nodded.

‘I’m meeting him at four thirty at the theatre. He could only spare me half an hour. I think he’s doing Karius and Bactus, The Tooth Trolls as well as rehearsing Hamlet. Do you want to come along?’

Munch shook his head.

‘No, you take that one. Does he live in his great-grandmother’s flat? Is that the address to which the bills are sent? You know the drill.’

‘No problem,’ Mia said.

‘I just refuse to believe it,’ Munch said. ‘Someone must have seen something. Our killer getting in and out of a car? Going in or out of a cabin? In or out of a basement? The girls have to be fed. Is our killer buying extra food? Our killer…’

He continued to stare at the tip of his cigarette.

‘If it’s that well planned, then we need a lucky break, you must be aware of that,’ Mia said quietly.

‘And it does seem well planned, doesn’t it?’ Munch sighed.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Mia nodded. ‘It could have been years in the preparation, for all the evidence we have.’

‘And we know what that means,’ Munch said. ‘The girls will be dead if we don’t find them soon.’

Mia said nothing. She, too, stayed where she was, staring down at the street. Sometimes, she envied the people down there. Normal people. Who owned a corner shop or bought shoes for their kids. Who didn’t have to deal with stuff like this. She found another lozenge in her pocket and braced herself.

‘There something I have to tell you,’ she said to Munch.

‘Spit it out,’ he said.

Mia paused as she struggled to find the right words.

‘What is it?’ Munch urged her.

‘I think that you’re involved,’ Mia said at length.

‘Involved?’

‘I think you were part of the planning.’

‘What are you talking about, Mia?’

They were interrupted by a timid Gabriel Mørk, who popped his head around the door to the terrace.

‘Sorry to disturb you, but…’

‘What do you want?’ Munch barked at him.

‘Oh, it’s just… Mia, I found, well, you know, the information you asked for earlier today. What do you want me to do with it?’

‘I want you to give all the names to Kim and Ludvig and get them to cross-reference them with the Hønefoss case. I have a hunch we might find something there.’

‘Will do,’ the young lad said, and quickly closed the door without ever once looking at Munch.

‘Just what did you mean when you said that I was part of the planning?’

‘I think’ – Mia nodded pensively – ‘that this is about you.’

‘About me?’

Mia nodded again.

‘I think so.’

They were interrupted once more, this time by an agitated Anette Goli, who didn’t even bother knocking.

‘You have to come right now,’ she said to Munch.

‘What is it?’

‘We have a breakthrough. We’ve just had a call from a lawyer…’

She looked at a Post-it note in her hand.

‘… his name is Livold. He represents Aftenposten. They’ve been contacted by the killer.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Munch said. He got up and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When?’

‘Several times. I believe. Some days ago. Most recently, lunchtime today.’

‘And they ring us now?’ Munch was fuming. ‘Now? Morons.’

‘They’ve clearly spent a day or two taking legal advice.’

‘Bloody fools, where are they?’

‘Postgirobygget. They’re waiting for us now. I have a car downstairs.’

Munch turned to Mia. ‘Are you coming?’

Mia shook her head. ‘I’m off to see Benjamin Bache.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He gave her a strange look. ‘We’ll have to do this later, but soon. I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I’ll meet you at Justisen afterwards,’ Mia said.

‘Fine,’ Munch said, and half ran after Anette out of the office.

Chapter 44

Benjamin Bache was sitting on the steps outside Nationaltheatret when Mia arrived. He seemed restless; he checked his watch, played with his phone, lit a cigarette, drummed his fingers on his thigh, glanced around as if he was nervous that someone might notice him. It wasn’t the smartest place to hang around if you didn’t want to be seen, Mia thought, and stopped behind the statue of Henrik Ibsen so she could spend some time observing him.

She had seen him somewhere before, but it took a while before she could place him. Not in Se og Hør – she never read that, she couldn’t even be bothered to flick through such magazines when she was at the dentist’s. Not that she had anything against them, it was just that their features held very little interest for her. The press had turned its attention to her when the storm raging around her was at its worst, but she had refused them all. ‘The truth about Mia Krüger’ was pretty much how the journalist had put it when he called her. Could such people even be called journalists? How did it work? Were you a journalist if you wrote about people’s breasts and where they spent their holidays? Surely there had to be some sort of professional standard? She had declined politely, even though he had offered her ‘a great holiday in the sun for you and your boyfriend – are you seeing anyone right now?’ Mia chuckled to herself and took a bite of the apple she had bought from the Narvesen kiosk further up the street. A holiday in the sun, seriously. Was that the best they could do? Was that their best offer? In return for which she would lay bare her private life? A holiday in the sun?

Benjamin Bache sat with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth and one eye narrowed while he tapped the screen on his phone. He put it in his pocket, rolled the cigarette between his fingers, went back to drumming his thigh then suddenly took out the phone again and pressed the screen once more. That was when it came back to her. A scene from a film at the Contemplation by the Sea Festival. He had been playing a police officer. He was supposed to be her – or rather, not her, but possibly Kim or Curry, a male detective who was not the boss but a member of a unit. He had seemed uncomfortable in the role. Mia took a last bite of the apple, tossed the core into a waste bin and walked up to the steps.

Benjamin Bache rose when he saw her and came towards her with a broad smile on his face.

‘Hi, Mia, great to see you,’ he said, and offered her a firm handshake.

‘Hello,’ Mia said, somewhat surprised that he acted as if he knew her.

Perhaps that was what they did in his circles. Those of us who appear on TV and feature in the newspapers are in the same boat, we’re a community and we stick together. It was so not Mia’s way of doing things, but she decided to ignore it.

‘I’ve booked us a table at Theatercaféen, is that all right?’ Benjamin said, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Fine.’ Mia smiled. ‘But I don’t think it’ll take that long.’

‘Indulge me.’ Benjamin winked at her and punched her arm gently. ‘I need food. I’ve been rehearsing all day, and now I need to go and do some children’s theatre before more rehearsals tonight.’

‘Sure.’ Mia nodded. ‘I’m not hungry, but I can watch you eat.’

‘Sounds great.’ Benjamin smiled and gestured for her to follow him across the street.

She was not surprised to discover that Benjamin Bache was on first-name terms with the waitress at Theatercaféen and chatted with her all the way to the table he had reserved by the window. He even introduced her to Mia. The girl was clearly embarrassed at having to shake Mia’s hand and introduce herself, and again Mia had to smile. Everyone was so chummy. It was a form of manipulation, she knew that, but she couldn’t work out if Benjamin Bache was bright enough to realize it. Perhaps that was just how things were done in his line of work. Everything was personal, intimate: we know each other, we’re on the same team, cast me, I can play this part.

He was a huge flirt, and no mistake. Mia could only hope that Susanne had not been dumb enough to get involved with a guy like him. That she had not shed tears over him. No, he was unlikely to be the one. Susanne preferred older men. Men who could take care of her. Not young men. Though Mia was quite sure that Benjamin Bache could play the strong, caring type if he had to. Now, he was playing the part of… well, what would she call it? The innocent young lad?

‘I must say I was surprised when you called,’ Benjamin said when he had ordered. ‘What is this really about?’

Mia hid a smile: he had said almost the same line in the film she had seen.

‘It’s pure routine,’ Mia said, and took a sip of her water.

‘Fire away,’ Benjamin Bache said.

He raked his hand through his hair and winked at her. He really was a flirt. She made a mental note to tell Susanne to stay well clear of him the next time they saw each other.

‘It’s about your great-grandmother, Veronica Bache.’

‘I see?’ Benjamin said, raising his eyebrows.

‘She was your great-grandmother, wasn’t she? Veronica Bache, Hansteensgate 20. She passed away two years ago?’

‘That’s correct,’ Benjamin said.

‘She was living there when she died?’

‘No, no,’ Benjamin said. ‘She was in a home for many years.’

‘Høvikveien Care Home?’

‘Yes, that’s right. What is this really about?’

‘Who lives at the address Hansteensgate 20?’

‘It’s my flat. I’ve lived there for seven years.’

‘Since your great-grandmother went into care?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you inherit it? Is it in your name?’

‘No, it’s in my father’s name. What’s happened? Why are you asking me this, Mia?’

Again, this first-name business. She was tempted to confide in him, open up. It really was a very effective technique – she would have to try it out sometime.

‘Like I said, it’s just routine,’ Mia said, taking another sip of water. ‘What’s the production you’re doing?’

‘What? Er, Hamlet,’ Benjamin Bache replied. ‘Or, rather, we’re still rehearsing. I’m in a children’s play right now, but I’m also rehearsing an incredibly exciting new project, a young Norwegian dramatist – she’s only twenty-two, hugely talented – a group of us have come together to support her, pro bono, if you know what I mean, raw, underground, edgy.’

‘I understand.’ Mia nodded. ‘Where was her post sent to?’

‘Whose post?’

‘Veronica Bache’s.’

‘What about her post?’

‘I’m asking if her post was sent to the care home or to your address?’

Benjamin Bache seemed perplexed.

‘Eh, most of it went to Høvikveien Care Home. What kind of post do you mean? Some of it was sent to me, but I forwarded it to the care home, or took it with me when I visited her. What kind of post are we talking about?’

Mia took out a piece of paper from her jacket pocket and slipped it across the white tablecloth.

‘Was this her mobile number?’

Benjamin stared at the number and, if possible, looked even more confused.

‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘This number. Did it use to be hers?’

‘My great-grandmother never owned a mobile phone in her life,’ Benjamin said. ‘She hated them. And why would she want one? All the residents had their own private landline.’

Mia took back the piece of paper and stuffed it in her pocket.

‘Thank you,’ she said, getting up. ‘That was all I needed to know. Thanks for your time.’

‘Was that really all?’ Benjamin Bache said. He seemed almost disappointed.

‘Yes – oh no, there was one more thing,’ Mia said, sitting down again. ‘Who inherited from your great-grandmother?’

‘My father,’ Benjamin said.

‘Was there ever any talk… how do I put this, did she leave any of her money to a church?’

Benjamin Bache fell silent. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and gazed out of the window.

‘Do I have to answer that?’ he said at length.

‘No, of course you don’t,’ Mia said, patting his hand. ‘It’s just that I’m working on a major case and, well, her name cropped up and I know I shouldn’t tell you this, Benjamin, but…’

She leaned towards him.

‘… we’re so close to cracking this case, and if you were able to help me, perhaps I could solve it as early as tonight.’

‘A major case?’ Benjamin too moved forwards as he whispered this to her.

Mia nodded and placed her finger against her lips. Benjamin nodded back. He sat upright again and pretended, like the accomplished actor he was, that nothing had happened.

‘This will be just between the two of us, OK?’ he said, looking around casually.

‘Absolutely,’ Mia whispered.

Benjamin cleared his throat.

‘My father is a very proud man, so if this were to come out, then…’

‘It’ll stay between you and me.’ Mia winked.

‘We agreed a settlement,’ Benjamin said quickly.

‘What kind of settlement?’

‘She changed her will just before she died.’

‘How much would the church get?’

‘Everything.’ Benjamin coughed.

‘But you managed to put a stop to it?’

He nodded.

‘My father contacted the church. Threatened to sue them. He offered them some money. And that was the end of it.’

‘How much money?’

‘Enough,’ Benjamin mumbled.

Mia studied the actor for a while. He seemed genuine and innocent, but then again, he was an actor, wasn’t he? He could have taken out a mobile-phone contract in Veronica Bache’s name, and hadn’t he just told her that he was rehearsing Hamlet?

Who’s there?

She thought about taking him to the station for a more formal interview but decided it would be better to have him followed. That would soon tell them if Benjamin Bache was who he said he was.

‘Thank you so much,’ Mia said, taking his hand again. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

She got up and zipped up her leather jacket.

‘Was that all? Don’t you want something to eat?’

‘No, but thanks for offering. See you later, Benjamin.’

‘Yes, see you later, Mia.’

Mia put on her beanie and left Theatercaféen with a smile on her lips.

Chapter 45

Tobias Iversen made himself as small as possible as he crept towards the edge of the mound. From this position, he would have a good view of the farm in the forest. He had pitched his tent further back in between some trees where no one could see him and spent the night there. His original plan had been to go home but, since meeting the girl in the grey dress, he simply had to stay. Rakel. That was her name. She had written him a note, asking for his help. That made it more important to stay in the forest than to go home to the dark house where no one ever smiled. Tobias was just thirteen years old, but he felt much older. He had been old for a long time. He had been subjected to things no child should ever experience, but right now it did not matter; out here, he could do what he wanted.

Tobias wormed his way to the edge and raised his binoculars to his eyes. The farmyard was quiet. He didn’t know what time it was, but it had to be early because it wasn’t properly light yet. He could see everything much more clearly now; last night, he had only been able to make out silhouettes. There was no doubt that they were busy with several building projects. There were materials everywhere: different-sized planks, sacks which might contain cement – he could see a cement mixer, a small tractor and a small digger. The farm was made up of seven buildings, all white. There was the main house, a small church with a cross on the top, two greenhouses, and then three smaller houses, plus a shed. Tobias had lain in the same place last night right until it grew too dark to see anything through the binoculars. He had made a small sketch of the area, noting the location of all the buildings, where the field was, the piles of sand, the bigger stacks of timber and the gate. The tall fence, through which they had passed notes, surrounded the whole area and, as far as he could see, there was only one way in. The gate. He couldn’t see whether it was locked, but it was closed; he could see that much. He had watched a man open it the night before. A car had arrived right before dusk. A large, black car, possibly a Land Rover or a Honda CR. Tobias didn’t know much about cars. He wasn’t terribly interested in them – he preferred mopeds and motorbikes, preferably those with cross-country tyres that could go off road – but he knew a little.

There had been two people in the car and they had been received as if they were the king or the prime minister. A young man with short, blond hair who must be a servant or a guard or something, because he had jumped out of the car first and opened the door for the other man, who was older and had plenty of white hair and carried a kind of stick almost like Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings.

Everyone on the farm had emerged from the buildings and bowed and curtsied in front of the new arrivals, and some had stepped forward and greeted the man with the big, white hair, and then they had all gone inside the large building with the cross at the top. After that, it had grown dark and he hadn’t been able to see much more. The light was on behind the windows, but they were covered with something like glass, only it was not glass, but a sort of material you couldn’t see through; Tobias didn’t know what it was called. Afterwards, he had eaten his sandwiches and heated some soup on the camping stove inside the tent. He had been very careful: he knew you should never use propane inside a tent, but he didn’t want to light it outside in case it gave him away. Besides, he had seen on TV that Børge Ousland, the North Pole explorer, had done it, he had lit his propane stove inside the tent because it was too cold outside, or there had been a polar bear around or something; at any rate, he’d been OK.

At first, he was unable to asleep. He kept thinking about the girl. Rakel. She was so different from the girls in his school. According to Emilie, his Norwegian teacher, being a girl these days wasn’t easy; they had had a discussion in class once because some of the girls had worn skimpy clothes. Emilie had spent a whole lesson discussing neither Norwegian nor books but stuff about girls wearing too much make-up or showing their midriff or wearing too-short skirts. Emilie had said it was important to remember that they were only thirteen years old, but she could understand why they did it, because all the women they admired on TV often wore just a bra and pants and fishnet stockings while they sang. Afterwards, they had agreed some rules about what was allowed and what wasn’t, and things had improved a little, but the girls at school still wore completely different clothes from Rakel.

‘Help me. Please.’

She had looked so frightened. For real. Not like when he and his brother played Indians and were trying to catch bison. The bison didn’t exist and they weren’t real Indians, either. This was real. He was Tobias and she was Rakel. And she was frightened for real, and now he was here to help her. Tobias Iversen stuck a twig in his mouth and chewed it while he scanned the area with his binoculars to see if he had missed anything on the sketch he had made the night before.

Tobias aimed his binoculars at the gate and focused them as sharply as he could. The gate was made from the same material as the fence – wire netting, or whatever it was called – and had a large, hinged gate which opened inwards. It looked as if there was a chain in the middle, and probably also a lock. Tobias set down the binoculars in the heather and unwrapped the packed lunch he had in his jacket. There were two sandwiches left; he had saved them from last night, one with brown cheese and one with salami. He ate the one with brown cheese and drank from his water bottle, which he had refilled from the river. He had to make a plan now, that was important. Firstly, he had to get a clearer idea of the area; he had learned that from a film he had seen about some men who wanted to rob a bank – no, a casino – in Las Vegas. They had lots of maps and blueprints and held lots of meetings where everything was discussed. He already had a map. Now all he needed was a plan.

Tobias was just about to eat his salami sandwich when something happened down on the farm. He grabbed his binoculars. A door was flung open and a figure emerged outside. A girl in a grey dress. His heart leapt underneath his jumper. It was Rakel. She was running as fast as she could, heading for the section of the fence where they had spoken the day before. She tripped on the hem of her dress, fell and got back on her feet. She hoisted up her dress to make it easier, but she still wasn’t very fast. Right behind her, out of the same door, four – no, five men – gave chase. Tobias’s heart pounded in his chest; he could barely keep his binoculars steady in front of his eyes. Rakel turned around, glanced back and stumbled a second time. The men were gaining on her, they weren’t far behind her now, he could see them waving their hands, shouting something. Rakel neared the fence and, finally, she reached it. She started to climb it, but seemed to find it difficult. The holes in the mesh were small and her heavy dress didn’t help. The men approached at speed. One of them reached the fence and managed to grab her foot; they pulled her down while she kicked and screamed, then carried her back to the house between them, and everything fell quiet again.

Tobias felt icy cold. Not on the outside, but underneath his skin. His thoughts ran amok and he started hyperventilating, even though he was lying completely still. What on earth was going on down there? He scrambled to his feet. There was no time to make a plan. Nor was there any time to pack. He raced back to the tent, picked up his knife and the map he had drawn and made his way stealthily down the mound, towards the farm.

Chapter 46

Mia was sitting in Justisen, toying with the idea of ordering a beer, but she ended up getting a Farris. Some minutes later, Holger arrived. He collapsed breathlessly on the chair opposite her.

‘What happened?’ Mia asked.

‘The killer contacted Aftenposten some days ago. He called a journalist called Mikkel Wold. Distorted voice. Gave information about Karoline.’

‘Why didn’t they come to us?’

‘Because they’re a bunch of selfish bastards who only care about selling newspapers.’

Munch was visibly annoyed.

‘So now what?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he fumed. ‘Their lawyer kept stressing that they had done nothing wrong and that we couldn’t charge them with anything.’

‘Surely we can bring them in, if nothing else?’ Mia said.

‘Mikkelson said he’d think about it, but that my interviewing them would probably suffice.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Bloody politicians,’ Munch snarled. ‘Always feathering their own nests.’

He ordered a prawn sandwich and a cola and took off his jacket.

‘So what did you get?’

‘A verbal statement. They’ll send us a written one tomorrow.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘Not really, no,’ Munch said, shaking his head in despair. ‘What did Bache say?’

‘Bingo,’ Mia said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think you are involved.’

Munch raised his eyebrows.

‘I heard you, what do you mean by it?’

‘I think this is about you.’

Munch’s food came and he took a sip of his cola.

‘It’s a bit difficult to explain. Like I said, I have this hunch,’ Mia continued.

‘Try me,’ Munch said.

‘OK,’ Mia said. ‘The killer points us to Hønefoss and the missing baby. Who was responsible for that investigation?’

‘I was,’ Munch said.

‘Correct.’

‘Hamlet,’ Mia said. ‘What’s Hamlet about?’

‘True love?’ Munch ventured.

‘That’s Romeo and Juliet. Try again, Holger, Hamlet?’

‘You were the one who studied literature, Mia.’

‘Three lectures in two terms and no exam doesn’t make me an expert,’ Mia said.

‘I don’t know Shakespeare very well.’ Munch sighed.

‘OK, never mind. Revenge. Hamlet is about revenge. There’s more to it than that, obviously, but that’s the main theme.’

‘Right. Baby disappears. I’m in charge of the investigation. The Swede hangs himself. We shelve the case. The baby is still missing. Presumed dead. The killer tells us the Swede didn’t do it.’

‘Toni J. W. Smith.’

‘Exactly, and points us to Hamlet. So this is about revenge?’

‘Something like that.’

‘But now what? OK, I can follow you some of the way. The baby is missing, yes. I’m responsible, yes. Hamlet, revenge, yes. But why kill ten girls? What does that have to do with me? Surely you can hear it sounds a bit far-fetched, Mia?’

Mia drank her mineral water and thought about it.

‘Benjamin Bache’s great-grandmother.’

‘Veronica Bache, what about her?’

‘She lived at the same care home as your mother. What do you make of that?’

Munch’s eyes widened.

‘Did she? How do you know that?’

‘I discovered it earlier today. Ludvig is cross-referencing all staff members, residents and names associated with the care home with the Hønefoss case as we speak. I don’t think Benjamin Bache is our guy, but we need to remember that a mobile registered to Veronica Bache was used to send those messages. By someone at the care home? Or are we being played? I have to admit that I’m not clear about that right now. I’ve asked Ludvig to look into it.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing yet. And, oh, the care home isn’t the only link between your mother and Veronica Bache.’

‘What more is there?’

‘A church.’

‘Bache was a member of it?’

‘More than that. She was going to leave it all her money.’

‘What?’

‘Do you see it now? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘Good job, Mia,’ Munch muttered. ‘This is good.’

He became lost in his own world. Tried to process the information she had given him.

‘Why?’ Mia said.

‘Yes, why?’

‘I don’t know that yet, but there are too many coincidences, wouldn’t you say? What’s the common denominator here, Munch?’

‘The church.’

‘Precisely.’

‘But-’ Munch frowned.

‘I know, I don’t really understand it either. It’s too messy. I almost think that’s the point, that we’re meant to get lost. A million dead ends. I know it sounds weird, but he’s doing a good job. The killer, I mean. I would have done it the same way.’

Munch sent her a sideways glance.

‘You know what I mean. If I was on the other side. Symbols everywhere, changing the MO… we’re running around in circles. We’re sent this way, then that way. It’s how you play tennis, isn’t it?’

‘Tennis?’

‘The player who serves always has the advantage. As long as you keep pressing your opponent so hard that all they can do is return the ball, you’re in the driving seat. Unless you make a mistake, you’ll win.’

‘So the killer is serving?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure I get the comparison.’ Munch sighed. ‘Tennis and murder?’

‘Oh, you know exactly what I mean, you numpty, you’re just refusing to give me credit for anything. You like having all the ideas yourself.’

‘Yes, that’s me all right.’

Munch winked at her, swallowed the last bite of his prawn sandwich and wiped a little mayonnaise from his beard with the napkin.

‘I need a cigarette.’

‘I’m going to have to start smoking.’ Mia sighed. ‘Having to accommodate your nicotine cravings the whole time is seriously dull.’

‘Sorry,’ Munch said, without meaning it, and walked ahead of her out into the beer garden.

‘I know I’m rambling and speculating,’ Mia said when they were seated next to the patio heaters. ‘But we can’t just sit here twiddling our thumbs.’

‘Well, we could always bat some ideas around.’ Munch winked at her.

‘Oh, shut up,’ Mia laughed. ‘Fine, no more sports analogies, but you know where I’m coming from.’

‘Chaos.’

‘Correct.’

‘…Chaos” is a better term to describe this than tennis.’

‘All right, all right,’ Mia said. ‘Fine, let’s call it chaos.’

‘There’s a big difference between chaos and tennis. Tennis is a positional game.’

‘And this isn’t?’

Munch lit a cigarette. ‘Hmm, yes, I guess so.’

‘You see, I was right to some extent.’

‘Chaos is better.’

‘You can be so childish, did you know that?’

‘How do you rob a bank without getting noticed?’

‘You blow up the building across the road, I know.’ Mia sighed again.

‘Sorry.’ Munch smiled and rubbed his eyes. ‘It’s been a long week. I lost my temper with my lawyer today. Why won’t people ever take responsibility for their own actions? So where do we go with this?’

‘That was what I wanted to ask you about.’

‘The church?’

‘That goes without saying.’

‘You and me tomorrow morning?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Is Gabriel still at the office?’

‘I think so.’

‘Send him a text. Ask him to check up on the church so we’re prepared when we get there. I can’t remember what they call themselves, but the address is on Bogerudveien in Bøler.’

‘OK,’ Mia said, taking out her mobile.

‘By the way,’ Munch said, lighting a fresh cigarette with his current one. ‘What did you say just now?’

‘About tennis?’

‘Yes, that if you’re serving, then you’ll win.’

‘Unless you make a mistake…’

They both fell silent and looked at each other.

‘It’s a nice idea, isn’t it?’ Munch said.

‘Definitely.’ Mia nodded.

‘Putting pressure on the killer,’ Munch said.

‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’ Mia nodded once more.

‘You do that. Meanwhile, I’ll put together a list of the sons of bitches who want my money.’ Munch got up.

‘Are you leaving already?’

‘I have Marion tonight. The wedding, you know. They have so much to do.’

‘Of course.’ Mia nodded again. ‘Give my love to Miriam.’

‘I will.’

Munch stubbed out his cigarette and left. Mia considered having a beer but willed herself to order a Farris instead. She took out her pen and her papers, which she spread across the table, as she usually did when she wanted to get her thinking in order. In the past, she had seen everything so clearly and worked much faster; at her peak, all she had to do was close her eyes, and everything would play out in her head, but that was a long time ago. The Tryvann incident. The months on Hitra. It was as if her eyes were veiled. A kind of fog clouded her brain cells. She had been told to rest. Plenty of rest for a long time. Not to subject herself to any kind of pressure. Her response had been to drug herself. Almost to the point of death. And now she was paying the price. She started making notes on the sheets in front of her. Trying to get the pen to do the work. To impose some kind of order on the chaos. Thinking was almost painful. Two girls were dead. Two girls were missing. It was her responsibility. Munch. Munch was definitely involved somehow. She was sure of it. Or was she? Something which had been so easy for her a few years ago now seemed impossible. She should never have agreed to leave the island. She should have stuck with her plan.

Come to me, Mia, come.

She wrote down the names at the top of the sheets again. Pauline. Johanne. Karoline. Andrea. Six years old. About to start school this autumn. Mark 10:14. ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ ‘I’m travelling alone.’ Skipping rope. From the trees. The forest. Clean clothes. Freshly washed bodies. Shakespeare. Hamlet. Satchels. School books. It was coming now. Toni J. W. Smith. Hønefoss. The baby, who was never found. ‘I’m travelling alone.’

Come, Pauline, come.

Come, Johanne, come.

Come, Karoline, come.

Come, Andrea, come.

Mia was roused from her reverie when the waitress suddenly appeared next to her. Damn. She had been on her way. To the place where she had to go. A place she hadn’t visited for a long time.

‘Can I get you anything else?’

‘Yes, get me a beer, please,’ Mia muttered irritably. ‘And a Ratzeputz. Make that two Ratzeputz.’

She needed assistance to get back to the place where she needed to be.

Chapter 47

Mia Krüger was drunk but she couldn’t fall asleep. She had drunk too much. She had not drunk enough. The hotel room seemed colder and even more impersonal than usual. The clean bedlinen, which had been a friend, had become an enemy. She had chosen this room because it didn’t remind her of anything, but now she was missing home. A home. Something familiar. Something safe. Someone who could take care of her. Perhaps Mikkelson had been right after all. Perhaps she should go to see a psychologist. Perhaps she needed to be admitted. She had balanced on a knife edge for a long time, recovered a little, been positive, felt strong, but now she was spiralling downwards once more.

Her body spun around the large bed and she clung to it. She shouldn’t drink. She should so obviously not drink. No one should, really. She had been on her way, hadn’t she? To the place where she belonged? Get behind the façade. Her speciality. Seeing what no one else saw. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Just rest. Go someplace. Hide away on an island. Shut out the world. You’ve done your part. But no. Reality kept knocking. Evil insisted on disturbing her. Cars where there used to be seagulls. Streetlights and neon had replaced the stars. She was sensitive now. Her skin almost transparent. She used to be so tough. She shouldn’t drink. She should so obviously not drink. No one should, really.

Mia walked barefoot across the floor and found her trousers on a chair. Her pills were still in the pocket. She took one of them with her to the window and swallowed it with a mouthful of water. She sat for a long time staring at the traffic lights until she could no longer distinguish the colours. She staggered back to her cold bed and rested her head on the pillow.

Her mobile rang just as she had managed to fall asleep. She did her best to ignore it. Rest. Pretend nothing had happened. Her mobile stopped ringing. It couldn’t have been important. Her mobile started ringing again. Then it stopped. Her leaden body lay on the white sheet. When her mobile rang for the third time, she could no longer leave it alone.

‘Mia?’

It was Munch.

‘What time is it?’ Mia mumbled.

‘Five,’ Munch said.

‘What is it?’

‘They’ve found the girls.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll pick you up outside the hotel. Can you be ready in ten minutes? We have a long drive ahead of us.’

‘Damn,’ Mia heard her own voice say. ‘I’m on my way.’

Chapter 48

Tobias Iversen was lying behind a tree, waiting for darkness to fall. He had eaten his last sandwich a long time ago and was starting to feel hungry, but he couldn’t go home now, he had more important things to do. His plan had been to try the gate first, but that had proved impossible. It was locked with a chain and, besides, it was far too visible. The men had carried Rakel inside one of the small houses and, ever since then, the farm had been quiet. A few times, someone had emerged from the church and gone to the greenhouse, but apart from that he hadn’t seen anyone. The place seemed deserted. Almost like a graveyard. The wind rustled the trees above him. Tobias tightened his jacket around him and took out his binoculars again. Perhaps going home was a better option? Contacting the police? After all, he had seen them restrain her. Surely that was against the law? Or was it? They hadn’t hurt her, they had carried her across the yard. A naughty child who had refused to do as she was told. And wouldn’t the police need a warrant? They always had to have one in American movies. If they didn’t, they weren’t allowed to enter people’s houses to search them. Tobias didn’t quite know how things were in Norway, but perhaps it was the same. Suddenly, he no longer felt quite so tough. It had started out as a game. All he wanted was to take a closer look. A small expedition. He had never imagined meeting someone in need of help. He thought about Torben, who was probably back home now and wondering where his big brother was. About his mother and stepfather, who wouldn’t know what to tell him. He didn’t like the thought of his little brother being at home without him. The temptation to go home grew stronger. After all, he didn’t know this girl. What if she was just a spoiled brat? Perhaps she was just like Elin, a girl who had been in his class last year; she had broken into the head teacher’s office and stolen money and bitten the hand of one of the teachers during break-time when he caught her smoking in the playground. She, too, had seemed very nice, or at least she had been towards him, but then she was expelled, and no one had seen her since. Rakel might be just like her. Perhaps he was making a mountain out of a molehill. His mum often told him to stop making things up. It wasn’t a good thing to do. Making stuff up. It was bad. It was getting colder now. It was supposed to be spring, but it wasn’t really, certainly not in the evenings. He regretted not bringing his camping gear. The tent and sleeping bag and his rucksack were still on the mound where he had spent the night. He hadn’t brought his torch either. What a stupid thing to forget. ‘Where is your head?’ his mum would often say. ‘Is anyone at home?’ He was starting to feel a little ashamed. He had behaved like an idiot. Soon it would be too dark to get back to the tent. Too dark for him to find his way through the forest. If he left now, he could do it. At least he could reach the tent. He’d be able to walk home as long as he had his torch. It was probably for the best. Pack up his stuff. Make for home. And Torben. Tobias got up from his hiding place and looked around, just as one of the doors opened and something happened. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and stood very still. Two men had appeared from one of the houses with a figure between them. Rakel. It was her. Her head was covered. They had put a hood over her head. The two men were holding her arms, one on each side, frogmarching her. They disappeared behind the church and reappeared slightly further ahead. Tobias’s heart was racing. He could barely believe his own eyes. It was like a movie. They had captured her. Tied her hands in front and pulled a hood over her head. The two men continued walking in the direction of where Tobias was hiding, still dragging the girl between them. Past the tractor and the small shed, across the field – and what were they doing now? Tobias plucked up his courage and moved closer to the fence. The two men had stopped. One bent down towards the ground. He did something;Tobias couldn’t see what it was. Then, suddenly, she was no longer there. She was gone. Only the two men were left, and they began to make their way back to the house.

Tobias made a spur-of-the-moment decision. His plan had been to wait until it was completely dark, but now there was no time to lose. He crept all the way up to the fence and started scaling it. You weren’t allowed to treat a child like that. You weren’t allowed to be cruel to them, no matter what they had done; no grown-up should be allowed to get away with it. His courage was swelling now. He was angry. He grabbed hold of the wire netting, sticking his fingers through the holes. He managed to get a foothold and, hey presto!, almost before he knew it, he had climbed over the tall fence and was inside. He stayed crouched on the ground to catch his breath while he glanced around. The farm was quiet again. The ground was cold and wet underneath him. Where could she be? They had dragged her into the middle of a flat area, and then she had disappeared. Tobias should have been scared, but he wasn’t. He was livid. He was furious with all the adults who hurt children. Children should be free. To play. To feel safe. Not to stand with their heads bowed in the kitchen. It hurt to be told you were stupid. It hurt to have your arms grabbed. It hurt not to be able to answer back because you didn’t know what would happen to your baby brother if you said the wrong thing. Tobias started creeping across the ground. The man had bent down about a hundred metres away. Then she had disappeared. Why did adults have children if they weren’t going to treat them properly? One day after Norwegian, Emilie had asked him why he had marks on his neck. Bruises on his arms. ‘You can tell me,’ she had said. She had been very nice, stroked his shoulder: ‘You can tell me, it’s safe to tell me.’ But he hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t her fault. She was just trying to help. But she didn’t know what it was like. She wouldn’t be there when he came home from school and they found out that he had told tales, would she? Telling would only make it worse. Everything would be worse, oh yes, he knew exactly how it would be. It was a question of endurance. Survival. Making sure that his younger brother didn’t suffer the same treatment. Take the beatings. ‘Is anyone in there?’ ‘Are you thick or something?’

Tobias crouched down in the wet grass, trying to make himself as small as possible. His knees got wet, but he didn’t care. He could take it. He was tough. It was important to keep your mouth shut. Never argue back; that only made it worse. Nod. Bow your head. Say yes. He was not afraid. He was no longer scared. They had put a hood over her head. You were not allowed to do that. Adults were not allowed to do this to children. He sneaked forward, pausing every now and then to make sure everything was safe, that no doors had opened, but no one had spotted him. In five years, he would be eighteen. When you were eighteen, you got to decide everything for yourself. He would move out, perhaps find himself a job, maybe take his brother with him, even though he would only be twelve. Is everything OK at home, Tobias? Please tell your mother to come to Parents’ Evening. I really want to talk to her. She hasn’t been to a Parents’ Evening for a long time, it’s important that she comes, please would you tell her? Have you hurt your hand? What happened to your ear? Is there anything I help you with, Tobias? You can trust me, you know that.

Tobias had reached the place where Rakel had vanished from sight. It was dark outside now. The church soared towards the sky, poking its spire into the moon and the clouds. Almost like an old-fashioned horror movie. Frankenstein or Dracula, one of those. He should be scared, but he wasn’t. He was angry. He had seen her eyes under the white bonnet. They were adults and she was a child. You were not allowed to hurt children. Yet again, Tobias regretted not bringing his torch. He could barely see the ground in front of him; the moon provided him with a little light, but it appeared for only a few seconds at a time. He was not an idiot. She couldn’t just have vanished into thin air. There had to be a hole in the ground somewhere. A hatch. Something. What kind of adult puts a child into a hole in the ground?

Tobias bent down and started patting the earth around him. Suddenly, a light was turned on inside the church. Tobias reacted instinctively, threw himself down and lay flat on the wet ground. He could smell soil and grass. He lay like this for a while, but no one came outside. He steeled himself and got up into a kneeling position; the light from the windows made it easier for him to see. He was looking for a hatch in the ground. People don’t just disappear.

It didn’t take long before he found it. It was brand-new, pale planks fixed together in a square measuring a metre by a metre, a hatch leading right into the ground. It was padlocked. Not with a big padlock but a small one, gold coloured like the one his PE teacher used for the ball cupboard, so no one would take the footballs without asking permission first. He glanced around again. There was no one in sight. There were voices coming from the church now, singing; the people inside the church were singing. They did some other things as well as singing. To God, or whatever it was. They didn’t know he was out here. That someone was out here trying to help Rakel. Pick the padlock. Release her. Tobias couldn’t help smiling. The PE teacher had never worked out why the footballs kept going missing. He didn’t know how easy it is to pick a padlock. Tobias had done it many times. Nearly all the boys in his class knew how to pick a padlock. It was even easier than cheating during tests. They had made pick locks during metalwork when the teacher went outside to have a cigarette. All you needed was a strip of metal; a nail file like the ones the girls used was a good starting point. You trimmed the tip with metal cutters and filed it down until the tip became very thin. It was a bit tricky, obviously – someone had to show you how to do it – but once you knew how, it was easy. Tobias took out his keys from the zip-lock pocket in his jacket and found the pick lock. Held the padlock so that the keyhole was widest to the right. Inserted the pick lock, pressed it hard to the left until he felt it make contact with the metal inside. He flicked it, pulling the lock towards him, pressed it, and then turned it hard to the right. Tobias heard small click as the lock opened. He removed it and lifted up the heavy hatch. A ladder. There was a long ladder leading into a hole. Carefully, he stuck his head inside the hole and whispered: ‘Hello? Rakel? Are you there?’

Chapter 49

Munch was already waiting outside the hotel when Mia appeared. She got into the black Audi and tried to make herself wake up. The pill she had taken was still in her system, making her slow and lethargic. Munch didn’t look as if he had slept much either. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The brown corduroy jacket with the leather patches on the elbows and a stained shirt. He had bags under his eyes and deep frown lines on his forehead. Suddenly, Mia felt a little sorry for him. He really needed company. A woman in his life. Someone who could take care of him, the way he always took care of everybody else.

‘What have we got?’ Mia said.

‘Isegran Fort.’

‘Where is that?’

‘Fredrikstad.’

Mia frowned. The two other girls had been found near Oslo. In the woods. The killer had changed MO again.

‘Who found them?’

‘A couple of students.’ Munch sighed. ‘I believe the area is fenced off, but they had crept in to make out or something. What do I know?’

‘Who have we got down there?’

‘The local police. Curry and Anette are on their way, they should arrive soon.’

‘And what do we know so far?’

‘Both girls were lying on the ground either side of a stake.’

‘A stake?’

Munch nodded.

‘What kind of stake?’

‘A wooden one. With a pig’s head on the top.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I said. The girls were lying on the grass either side of a wooden stake with a pig’s head on the top.’

‘A real pig’s head?’

Munch nodded again.

‘Jesus Christ.’ Mia let out a sigh.

‘What do you think it means?’

Munch turned on the heating and took the tunnel by Rådhusplassen to get out of the city centre.

‘A pig’s head on a stake?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s hard to say,’ Mia replied.

The heating inside the car made her sleepy. She was in need of her morning coffee but didn’t want to ask Munch to stop.

‘It has to mean something?’

‘Lord of the Flies,’ Mia said quietly.

‘What?’

‘It’s from a book. Lord of the Flies. Some kids wash up on a desert island, no adults present. They think a monster lives there. They place a pig’s head on a spike as an offering.’

‘Christ Almighty.’ Munch sighed. ‘We’re dealing with a monster, is that it?’

‘Could be.’

‘There is a bag of Fisherman’s Friends in there,’ Munch said, pointing to the glove compartment.

‘And?’

‘You need one,’ Munch said as he turned on to Drammensveien.

Mia felt a tad of irritation, but it passed quickly. She opened the glove compartment and took out the bag of lozenges. Took two before stuffing the whole bag into the pocket of her leather jacket.

‘Why Fredrikstad of all places?’ Munch wondered out loud. ‘It makes no bloody sense. And it’s so public.’

‘We’re too slow on the uptake,’ Mia said, taking out her mobile.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The killer is telling us that we’re doing a bad job.’

‘Dear Lord.’ Munch sighed.

Mia found Gabriel Mørk in her list of contacts.

‘Gabriel speaking.’

‘Hi, it’s Mia. Are you at work?’

‘Yep,’ Gabriel sighed at the other end.

‘Tell me what you have on Isegran Fort in Fredrikstad.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, Munch and I are on our way there. They’ve found the girls.’

‘I heard.’

There was silence at the other end. Mia could hear Gabriel type on his keyboard.

‘Have you found something?’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Anything.’

‘Right, here we go,’ the young man said, strangling a yawn. ‘Isegran Fort. Fortification on a small island outside Fredrikstad. It divides the Glomma estuary into two. It was built at the end of the twelfth century by the Earl of Borgsyssel, whoever he was. A stone and wooden building. Destroyed in 1287 by some king or other. New fortress built in the sixteenth century. Peter Wessel Tordenskiold used the place as a base during the great Nordic War, whenever that was. The name Isegran means Ö the wise men seem to be in disagreement here, but it could be from the French île grand, the big island. Does any of this help?’

‘Not really,’ Mia said. ‘Is there anything else? Something contemporary? What is it used for today?’

‘Hang on.’

Mia wedged the mobile in between her ear and shoulder and took another Fisherman’s Friend. She could still feel the taste of alcohol at the back of her throat.

‘There’s not much here. Wedding photographs taken at Isegran Fort. It’s a popular destination for pensioners on a day out.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes. No, wait.’

There was silence again.

‘What have you got?’

‘I don’t know if this is useful, but a monument will be unveiled there in 2013. Not on the fort itself, but on the seaside promenade.’

‘What kind of monument?’

‘It’s called Munch’s Mothers. Bronze statues of Edvard Munch’s mother and aunt.’

‘Of course,’ Mia muttered to herself.

‘Was that any help?’

‘Absolutely, Gabriel, thank you so much.’

She was about to hang up, but Gabriel stopped her.

‘Is Munch there with you?’

‘Yes?’

‘What kind of mood is he in?’

‘So-so, why?’

‘Please could I speak to him?’

‘OK.’

Mia passed her mobile to Munch.

‘Yes, Munch speaking?’

Munch’s Mothers. She had been right after all.

‘Yes, I understand,’ Munch said on the phone. ‘But don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s personal; we have other, more important things to do. What? Yes, it can drive you crazy, but I… What? Yes, I got it from a friend online. From Sweden. What? She calls herself margrete_08. Don’t worry about it. Yes, yes, I understand. Talk to you later.’

Munch laughed briefly to himself before handing the mobile back to Mia.

‘What was that about?’

‘Nothing important, just a private matter.’

‘He’s good,’ Mia said.

‘Who? Gabriel? Yes, absolutely. I like him. I’m glad we hired him.’

Mia took another Fisherman’s Friend and opened the window slightly.

‘Did you get anything from him? About Isegran Fort?

‘Absolutely.’ Mia nodded.

She repeated what Gabriel had just told her.

‘Damn.’ Munch swore softly to himself. ‘So this is about me? It’s my fault that these girls are dying?’

Munch narrowed his eyes and banged the steering wheel hard.

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ Mia said. ‘How long before we get there?’

‘One and a half hours,’ Munch said.

‘I think I’ll take a nap,’ Mia said.

‘Good idea.’ Munch nodded. ‘Have one for me, too, while you’re at it.’

Chapter 50

The sun was rising when they reached the police cordons. Munch showed them his warrant card and they were waved through by a young police officer with messy hair who looked as if he had just got out of bed. They parked the car outside a small red building called Café Galeien, where they were met by Curry, who guided them along the old stone wall. Mia could make out the seaside promenade on the other side where the bronze statues would be located. Edvard Munch’s mother and aunt. Laura Cathrine Munch and Karen Bjølstad. Mia knew a lot about Edvard Munch. Most people from Åsgårdstrand did. Their little town had always been proud that he had lived there, even though the fine ladies back in the day had twirled their parasols in disgust when they encountered the disreputable artist. Typical, isn’t it? Mia thought, as she spotted the white plastic tent the crime-scene officers had erected. Back then, they had despised him, but today we’ve conveniently forgotten all about that. Did that apply to all of Norway’s great artists? Did they have to die before we started valuing them? She was aware that this was not an original thought. She had heard it from her mother. Art and literature had always been highly valued in her childhood home. She had often sat by the kitchen table listening to her mother talking; it was almost like a lecture at school. Sigrid and her as the pupils, each with a bowl of porridge in front of them and their mother, Eva, as the eager teacher.

Curry seemed surprisingly wound up and kept talking all the way to the tent. The experienced police officer could come across as cold and hard, with his shaved head and muscular body, but Mia knew better. Curry was extremely talented and had a big heart, even though he looked and acted like a bulldog.

‘Two students found them. A couple. From Glemmen College. They were very upset, so we sent them home.’

‘Anything to do with this?’ Munch asked.

‘No, no, they could barely get a word out. I’ve never seen two students sober up so quickly in all my life. I think the discovery made the alcohol evaporate from their bodies.’

‘Any observations from the neighbourhood?’ Mia asked.

‘Not yet,’ Curry said. ‘Fredrikstad Police are doing door-to-door inquiries now. But I doubt they’ll come back with anything.’

‘Why not?’ Mia asked.

‘Is that a serious question?’ Curry smiled wryly.

‘It’s not exactly amateur hour, is it?’

They reached the tent just as an older man in a white plastic overall emerged from it. Mia was surprised to see a familiar face. She had worked several cases with criminal pathologist Ernst Hugo Vik, but she thought he had retired by now.

‘Munch. Mia.’ Vik nodded to them as they arrived.

‘Hello, Ernst,’ Munch said. ‘Did they drag you all the way from Oslo for this?’

‘No.’ Vik sighed. ‘I was hiding in my cabin, trying to get some peace, not that it did any good.’

‘What have we got?’ Mia asked.

Vik pulled down the white plastic hood and peeled off his gloves. He lit a cigarette and kicked a bit of dirt off his boots.

‘They haven’t been lying there long. One hour max before they were found would be my guess.’

‘And the time of death?’

‘The same.’ Vik sighed again.

‘They were killed in situ?’

‘It looks like it,’ the man said. ‘But I can’t tell you for certain until we get them on the table. What’s going on, Munch? I have to say it’s one of the weirdest cases I’ve ever seen. Rigorous.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mia said.

‘Well,’ Vik said, taking another drag on his cigarette. ‘What can I say? For a ritual murder, it’s very tidy. The girls are neat and clean. Dressed. Satchels. And then there’s this pig’s head? Damned if I know. You take a look for yourself. I need a break.’

The old man stuffed the gloves into his pocket and shuffled towards the car park. Munch and Mia put on the white overalls that had been put out for them and entered the tent.

Karoline Mykle was lying on the ground with her hands folded across her chest. She was wearing a yellow doll’s dress. A satchel had been placed by her feet. Andrea Lyng lay only a few metres way; she, too, had her hands folded on her chest and a satchel near her white shoes. Both girls wore identical signs around their necks, just like Pauline and Johanne. ‘I’m travelling alone.’ An almost religious scene with a grotesque pig’s head placed in the middle. Mia Krüger put on her gloves and bent over Andrea. She held up her small white hand and studied her fingernails.

‘Three,’ she nodded.

She carefully replaced the hand on the girl’s chest and went over to Karoline.

‘Four.’

At that moment, Munch’s mobile rang. He looked at the display but ignored the call. The phone rang again.

‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ he said, and pressed the red button for the second time.

‘Language,’ Mia said.

She nodded in the direction of the girls and got up again.

‘Sorry,’ Munch said as the phone rang for the third time.

He pressed the red button again and, almost immediately, Mia’s mobile started to ring. She saw Gabriel’s name on the display.

‘Gabriel?’ Munch whispered.

Mia nodded and pressed the button to ignore the call.

‘Did he just ring you?’

Munch nodded as Mia’s mobile rang again. She stepped outside the tent to answer the call.

‘This had better be important,’ Mia snarled.

Gabriel sounded upset, almost out of breath.

‘I have to talk Munch,’ he panted.

‘He’s busy. What is it?’

‘I’ve decoded the message,’ Gabriel started.

‘What message?’

‘He got an email. A challenge. A coded message. Margrete_08. I’ve cracked it. The Gronsfeld cipher. I’ve decoded it.’

‘Surely it can wait?’ Mia sighed.

‘No, it definitely can’t.’

The young hacker was practically screaming down the phone now.

‘You have to tell him. Now.’

‘Tell him what? What was the message?’

Gabriel fell silent for a moment, almost as if he was too scared to say what he had found out.

‘Gabriel?’ Mia said impatiently.

‘Tick-tock little Marion = 5.’

‘What?’

‘Tick-tock little Marion is number 5.’

‘Christ!’ Mia exclaimed, and ran into the tent to tell Holger Munch.