by Samuel Bjork
‘Shoes?’ Munch said, pointing to his feet.
‘Makes no difference,’ the technician muttered, and left the room.
They realized what he meant as soon as they reached the threshold. The floor had seen better days and a few more footprints across the threadbare carpet would make very little difference.
‘Please could we be in the room by ourselves for a moment?’ Goli requested.
The three other crime-scene technicians left.
‘Oh, no,’ Munch said when they had stepped inside and could see the body, which was lying on the bed.
‘Same puncture wound to the chest. And the same camera.’ Goli gestured towards the camera on the tripod. ‘A Nikon E300. Do you think it’s significant?’
This was addressed to Mia, but she wasn’t listening. It was a long time since she had last attended a crime scene. She had almost forgotten what it was like. In recent years she had hidden from them, looking at crime scenes only in photographs. She had used them as a shield, but not this time. She felt it creep through her now.
The darkness.
‘The mobile was on the table over there,’ Anette said, pointing towards it. ‘His own, programmed via Spotify to play the same song on a loop; that was what attracted the receptionist’s attention. Thin walls here, clearly.’
‘Which song?’
Munch was also far away now, in a fog somewhere.
‘John Coltrane. “My Favorite Things”.’
Mia steeled herself. She found a lozenge in her jacket pocket and put it in her mouth. It had always been a diversion tactic. A trick she had learned from a psychologist. The taste of salt on your tongue. It protects you. It represents something good. Something beautiful. Can you feel it, Mia? Can you?
‘“My Favorite Things”?’ Munch echoed.
‘Yes,’ Goli said. ‘Does it mean anything?’
‘Of course it does.’ Mia coughed. ‘Everything the killer does means something. Nothing here is random.’
‘So the writing on the wall over there is new?’
Goli gestured towards a sentence written with a black felt-tip pen on the floral wallpaper above the bed.
WATCH WHAT I CAN DO.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Mia said, pulling herself together.
She had barely glanced at the bed so far, she dreaded the effect that seeing the lifeless body might have on her, but now she let her eyes rest on the victim.
A young man.
Twenty-four to twenty-five years old would be her guess.
A saxophone next to him.
Still wearing his shoes.
And his coat.
Eyes open.
An expression of terror.
Fingers clenched inside his fists.
As though he wanted to defend himself and was unable to.
‘What do you think it can mean?’ Goli said. ‘The writing?’
‘It’s from Bambi.’ Mia walked up to the camera on the tripod, which was facing the blue-and-white victim on the bed. ‘Thumper the rabbit says it when he and Bambi go ice-skating.’
‘But it could be …’
Again Munch’s voice faded into the distance.
It had come to her when she went to Forensics, but she had managed to push the feeling away. A number scratched into the lens. It might just be a coincidence, mightn’t it? Something that had already been there? An old, much-used lens? It didn’t have to mean anything, did it?
Mia rummaged round her pocket for another lozenge as her eyes found what she was looking for but would have preferred not to see.
Another number.
Seven.
‘Same blisters to the mouth,’ Munch said somewhere, pointing a blue latex finger. ‘Have we checked his chest? Is there a needle mark?’
‘I thought we ought to wait for the pathologist,’ Goli said, still in a fog. ‘They’re on their way. I’ve just spoken to Lund.’
‘There’s another number,’ Mia mumbled, then pulled herself together.
The two other investigators looked at her.
‘On the lens?’ Munch asked, crossing the floor.
Mia nodded.
‘Damn,’ Munch said from behind the camera. ‘Seven. Four? Seven? What the hell is that supposed to mean? What do you think, Mia?’
The filthy floor had started to move now; it mixed with the faded flowers on the wallpaper and made her dizzy.
‘Not sure,’ she said, chewing her lip.
‘Are you OK?’
‘What?’
They were both looking at her now, strange eyes somewhere out in the mist.
‘I need a moment to think,’ Mia said, heading for the door. ‘Will you talk to the receptionist?’
‘What? Yes, yes, of course. Are you off now?’
‘I just need to sort something out,’ Mia mumbled, and pulled off her gloves.
‘Do whatever you have to do.’
Munch frowned and walked up close to the young man on the bed.
‘So the mobile was playing the song on repeat?’
‘Yes.’ Goli nodded.
‘I’ll call you,’ Mia murmured, and found her way to the fresh air in the street outside.
Chapter 21
‘So how do we do this?’ Anette Goli asked when Mia had left the room.
‘What do you mean? The media?’
One of the crime-scene technicians popped his head in, but Munch asked him to wait.
‘Yes. One body is one thing. Two, now that’s another matter entirely. We have to say something, I think.’
‘Set up a press conference.’ Munch sighed. ‘But we won’t say anything about there being a possible link between the two deaths. Not yet. As it’s an ongoing investigation and so on and so forth – you know the drill.’
‘And Mikkelson?’
‘Has he been hassling you?’
‘What do you think?’ The mobile in Goli’s pocket buzzed again. ‘The usual. Do we think we’re dealing with a serial killer? Is Munch ready for this so soon? Is Mia mentally all there?’
‘Again? When will he ever stop?’
‘You know that she admitted herself?’ Goli said in a quiet voice. ‘To rehab?’
‘I know that she feels better and looks bloody amazing, yes. What do you mean, “rehab”?’
‘The Vitkoff Clinic down in Jæren,’ Goli continued. ‘She admitted herself just after the New Year and stayed there for a month.’
‘I see. Good for her. And what about it?’
Munch was aware that he was getting irritated. Mikkelson was always like this. Whenever Mia solved cases for him and made him look like a hero in the media – well, there were never any questions about her mental health then.
‘Oh, I don’t know. You saw her just now, didn’t you? Perhaps she’s not fully recovered yet.’
‘Mia will be fine,’ Munch grunted, and was overcome by a strong urge for a cigarette.
‘And you?’ Goli asked in a friendly voice.
‘Me? What about me?’
‘Everyone would understand if this was too much for you, Holger. Two murders in such a short space of time. It’s not that long since Miriam’s accident.’
‘And whose side are you on?’
‘Yours, obviously, Holger, I just wanted to—’
‘I’m fine. Mia is great. You can tell Mikkelson to shut his mouth unless he has something constructive to offer. We have a job to do here. So will you set up that press conference?’
‘Of course, Holger.’
The impatient crime-scene technician popped his head round the door again, and this time Munch waved him in. He shook off his irritation with a cigarette under the flashing neon ‘O’ out in the street and went back to the room behind the reception.
‘How long will I have to sit here?’ the old man asked.
It was clear that the discovery of the dead young man in room nine had shocked him deeply.
‘Holger Munch, special unit,’ Munch said, shaking his hand.
‘Jim,’ the old man
mumbled. ‘Myhre. Jim Myhre. I’m sorry.’
A grey, thinning ponytail and round spectacles. Munch had seen this gaze before many times. A touch of nervousness in the presence of the authorities. No wonder. If this man owned and ran Hotel Lundgren, he had probably had plenty of encounters with the police over the years.
‘That’s quite all right, Jim,’ Munch said. ‘I can see that you’re tired. Were you on duty all night?’
‘Of course I was, or I don’t make any money. I can’t afford to hire anyone. I can barely make ends meet as it is.’
‘I understand. So it was you who checked in Kurt Wang?’
‘Who?’
‘The man in room nine? You don’t record the names of your guests?’
‘Cash only,’ Myhre muttered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I don’t care what they’re called as long as they pay.’
‘When did he arrive?’
Myhre hesitated.
‘Late. It could have been around eleven.’
‘And he came alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was no one else, let’s say, in front of or behind him? I mean, did anyone follow him?’
‘No,’ Myhre said, putting the coffee cup on the table with trembling hands.
‘And how did he seem? How was your conversation?’
‘Conversation?’
‘Yes? How did it go? “Hi, I need a room”?’
‘Something like that,’ Myhre said, and coughed. ‘I don’t know. He came in. Money in his hand. I don’t remember exactly what he said.’
‘Try.’
‘“I need a room” – something like that. Nothing unusual. Apart from the fact that he looked high, but we’re used to that here. It’s not exactly the Grand, I know it isn’t, but beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘High?’
‘Staring eyes,’ Myhre said, making an attempt to lift the coffee cup again. It wasn’t entirely successful. ‘Really high, if you ask me, but yes, like I said, we can’t afford to be picky here.’
‘And the saxophone?’
‘What do you mean, “saxophone”? He didn’t have anything with him.’
‘No carry case? No bag, suitcase, anything like that?’
Myhre shook his head.
‘Nope. Just the money in his hand.’
‘So what happened? Why did you go to his room?’
‘I never normally do that, but hell, the same song? All night? You can hear everything here. That constant howling, it was driving me crazy.’
‘So you just walked straight in?’
‘No, I knocked, obviously, several times. And at last, well, the door sort of just slipped open. I didn’t mean to go inside.’
Myhre was lost in thought for a moment and just about managed to steer the coffee cup back to his lips. He was clearly still in deep shock.
‘And he didn’t talk to any of the other guests? No one else, inside or out?’
‘No,’ Myhre said. ‘Well, that’s to say …’
He scratched his head a couple of times.
‘Who?’
‘He didn’t react at first, but now that I think about it—’
‘What?’ Munch asked impatiently.
‘The guy from the cleaning company.’
‘Yes?’
‘We have a deal with a Vietnamese firm. And they usually send – how can I put it? – well, not young white men, if you know what I mean?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘They practically pay us to work here, the company hires cheap labour – do you get my drift?’ Myhre said, and wrinkled his nose.
‘But this time they sent a young man? A young, ethnically Norwegian man?’
‘A white man, yes.’ Myhre nodded. ‘I thought nothing of it at the time. People need a job, no matter what they look like; I don’t have a problem with that.’
‘And this man spoke to Kurt Wang?’
‘Yes, I saw them in the corridor.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there for very long, I just saw that they spoke, that’s all.’
‘So this was your usual cleaning company?’
‘Yes, yes. I’m very happy with them, they’re cheap and reliable. We let some of their staff live here from time to time, it’s part of the deal we have. You’re not from the tax office, are you?’
‘No. You have their name? An address?’
‘Of course.’ Myhre put down the cup again.
He got up, went over to a crowded cork noticeboard behind the table and returned with a business card.
‘Sagene Laundry and Cleaning Services?’
‘A Vietnamese family. Very nice people. Like I said, we help their staff get a roof over their heads from time to time.’
He ground to a halt and looked away.
‘If you’re housing illegal migrants, then that’s none of my business,’ Munch said.
‘No, no, we—’
‘Like I said, it’s none of my business. But this young man – was he someone you had seen before?’
‘No.’
‘But he was from the cleaning company?’
‘Oh yes. Turned up with all the equipment. Did a rubbish job, though. Didn’t do any bloody cleaning. He made some excuse about having to go out to get something, but I never saw him again.’
‘But he spoke to Wang. The man in room nine?’
‘Absolutely,’ Myhre nodded and blinked. ‘Can I go now? I’ve been awake since last night.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to come to the station.’ Munch got up.
‘Now?’
‘Yes,’ Munch said, and went back out into the reception.
Anette Goli had just finished a phone call and came towards him.
‘Get someone to take this man to the station. Take a full statement and get a signature, OK?’
‘OK.’ Goli nodded and summoned one of the police officers near the door. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Sagene,’ Munch said, sticking the business card into the pocket of his duffel coat.
‘Will you be at the office later?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ Goli said as her mobile rang again.
Chapter 22
Sagene Laundry and Cleaning Services was located, not surprisingly, in the Sagene district of Oslo, near Sagene Church, an area Munch knew well. He and Marianne had lived here a long time ago in a one-bedroom flat with a tiny bedroom and the bathroom in the kitchen. He had just started as an investigator. She was still at teacher-training college. They hadn’t had much money, but they had been happy. Munch felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him and allowed himself a small smile as he chucked aside a cigarette butt and walked through the glass door into the small reception area.
The company offered dry-cleaning, laundry and cleaning services. Behind the reception counter were rails of garments. He was met by a smiling, middle-aged Vietnamese woman who got up as he entered.
‘Welcome. Dry-cleaning?’ she said, removing a pen from behind her ear. ‘Special offer on shirts today: three for the price of one and a free shirt with every suit, and another one for two suits.’
‘Oslo police,’ Munch said, showing her his warrant card. ‘Are you the owner?’
The woman put on a pair of glasses that hung on a string around her neck and looked at him warily.
‘Trouble?’
‘No, no,’ Munch said with a quick smile. ‘Everything is fine. I just have some questions about a staff member. Are you in charge of the staff?’
‘One moment,’ the woman said, and disappeared behind the garment rails.
She returned shortly afterwards, closely followed by a young, well-dressed man in his mid-twenties.
‘Dinh Nguyen,’ he said politely, and held out his hand. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Are you the owner?’
‘Daily manager.’
Pressed khaki trousers. White shirt under a black jumper. Nice, manicured hands with a gold watch on one wrist. Munch had a
feeling he would be more at home in a clothes catalogue than behind the counter of a cleaning firm. It looked like Sagene Laundry and Cleaning Services was a lucrative business.
‘I’m looking for information about one of your employees.’
‘Oh?’ Nguyen said with interest. ‘Who?’
‘He was working at Hotel Lundgren last night? Ethnic Norwegian?’
‘Lundgren? We didn’t have anyone down there yesterday, as far as I know. Ethnic Norwegian? Do you mean white?’
‘He’s said to be white, yes. Do you know if any of your staff match that description?’
‘No. We’re a family business – our employees are pretty much all aunts and uncles and cousins,’ Nguyen said with a faint smile.
‘So no outsiders?’
‘No, we—’
The young man was interrupted by the woman. A short exchange between them followed in what Munch presumed to be Vietnamese.
‘Oh, of course,’ Nguyen said, turning back to Munch. ‘I’m sorry, it could be one of our casuals.’
‘Casuals?’
‘We try to help people if we can.’ Nguyen nodded towards a row of chairs by the window. ‘We can’t hire many full-time staff, but at times people turn up just to see if there’s any work going.’
‘And is there?’
‘At times, yes.’
‘You’re a dry-cleaner’s as well as a cleaning business?’
Nguyen nodded.
‘And these casuals, how are they organized?’
‘They turn up, sit there, wait, and if we have a job that needs doing, they’ll get it.’
‘You mean a cleaning job?’
‘Yes, we have enough staff to do the dry-cleaning.’
The woman said something else, but this time Nguyen ignored her.
‘And who are they?’
‘The casuals?’
‘Yes.’
Nguyen wavered for a moment. Munch knew why. Just like Myhre from the hotel, this young man was scared that Munch might be from Immigration or the tax office.
‘Like I said—’
‘Listen,’ Munch said, scratching his beard. ‘I don’t care who they are, all right? If they’re here illegally or if they don’t pay their taxes. If something like that’s going on, then it’s someone else’s job to deal with it.’
Nguyen studied him for a little while longer from under his neatly trimmed fringe and then gave in.