by Samuel Bjork
“Torben?” he called out.
Tobias started walking through the forest in the direction where the arrow and his brother had disappeared. The wind had increased slightly, and the leaves rustled around him. He wasn’t scared. He’d been out here alone many times and in stronger winds and worse weather; he loved how nature took over and shook everything around him, but his brother scared easily.
“Torben? Where are you?”
Once more he felt bad for the things he’d said about the Christian girls. He had lied, invented stories in the boys’ locker room. He decided to go on an expedition soon, like the boys in Lord of the Flies, who had no adults around. Sneak out, pack some provisions and his flashlight, make a trip up there. He knew the way. See for himself if it was true what they said about the new farm and the fence and everything else. Exciting and educational. Now he remembered the phrase his former Norwegian teacher had been so fond of: everything they were going to do was always exciting and educational, so they had to sit still and listen, but then it never was. It was never exciting, and it could not have been all that educational either, because he couldn’t recall anything from those lessons. Then he remembered something his grandfather had said once when they were out for a drive in the old red Volvo: that not everyone is suited to have children, that some people should never have become parents. It had struck a chord with Tobias. Perhaps it was the same with teachers. That some were not suited to it, and that explained their sad faces every time they entered the classroom.
His train of thought was interrupted by a rustling in the bushes in front of him. Suddenly his brother appeared out of nowhere with a strange look on his face and a large wet stain on his trousers.
“Torben? What’s wrong?”
His brother looked at him with empty eyes. “There’s an angel hanging all alone in the forest.”
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s an angel hanging all alone in the forest.”
Tobias put his arms around his brother and could feel how the little boy continued to tremble.
“Are you making this up, Torben?”
“No. She’s in there.”
“Please, would you show me?”
His brother looked up at him. “She doesn’t have any wings, but she’s definitely an angel.”
“Show me,” Tobias said gravely, and nudged his brother in front of him through the spruces.
12
Mia Krüger sat on the rock watching the sun set over Hitra for the last time.
April 17. One day to go. Tomorrow she would rejoin Sigrid.
She felt tired. Not tired in the sense that she needed sleep but tired of everything. Of life. Of humanity. Of everything that had happened. She had found a kind of peace before Holger showed her the photographs in the folder, but once he left, it had crept over her again. This vile feeling.
Evil.
She took a swig from the bottle she’d brought with her and pulled the knitted cap farther over her ears. It had grown colder now; spring had not come early after all. It had only tricked everyone into thinking it was coming. Mia was pleased that she had the bottle to warm her up. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her last day. She had actually planned to cram as much as she could into her final twenty-four hours of life. The birds, the trees, the sea, the light. Have a day off from self-medicating so that she could feel things, be aware of herself, one last time. It had not worked out that way. After Holger left her, her desire for sensory deprivation had only increased. She had drunk more. Taken more pills. Woken up without realizing that she’d been asleep. Fallen asleep without realizing she’d been awake. She had promised herself not to care too much about the contents of the file. Stupid, obviously. When had she ever been able to distance herself from anything in these cases? Her job. Well, it might be a job for other people, but not for Mia Krüger. Each case affected her far too deeply. They all reached right inside her soul, as if it were her own story, as if she were the victim. Kidnapped, raped, beaten with iron bars, burned with cigarettes, killed with a drug overdose, only six years old, hanged from a tree with a jump rope.
Why wasn’t Pauline Olsen’s name on the schoolbooks?
When everything else had been planned down to the last detail.
Fuck it.
She’d tried blanking out the image of the little girl hanging from the tree, but she could not get it out of her head. Everything seemed so staged. So theatrical. Almost like a game. A kind of message. But for whom? For whoever found the child? The police? Mia had trawled through her memories to discover if the name Toni had cropped up in any case she’d been involved with but had found nothing. This was exactly the kind of thing she used to be so brilliant at, but she no longer seemed to be able to function. And yet there was something here, something she could not quite put her finger on, and it irritated her. Mia watched the sun sink into the sea and tried to concentrate. A message? For the police? An old case? A cold case? There were only a few unsolved cases in her career history, thank God. Even so, one or two still troubled her. A rich elderly lady had been found dead in her apartment, but they had been unable to prove that it was murder even though Mia was fairly sure that one of the daughters was responsible for the old lady’s death. She could not remember the name Toni in connection with that investigation. They had helped Ringerike Police in a missing-persons inquiry some years back. A baby had disappeared from the maternity ward, and a Swedish man had claimed responsibility and killed himself, but the baby had never been found. The case was shelved, even though Mia had fought to keep it active. No Toni in that investigation either, not as far as she could remember. Pauline. Six years. Hang on, wasn’t it six years since that baby had disappeared? Mia drained the bottle and let her eyes rest on the horizon while she tried to guide her gaze inward. Backward. Six years back. There was something here. She could almost taste it. But it refused to rise to the surface.
Damn.
Mia rummaged around her pants pockets for more pills but found none. She had forgotten to bring more. Her medication was laid out on the dining table now. Everything she had left. Plenty of it. Ready for use. She had imagined waiting until dawn, until the light came. Better to travel in the light, had been her thinking. If I travel in darkness, perhaps I’ll end up in darkness, but right now she did not care. All she had to do was wait until the clock passed midnight. When April 17 became 18.
Come to me, Mia, come.
It was not the ending she had imagined. She got up and hurled the empty bottle angrily into the sea. She regretted it immediately—she shouldn’t litter; this rule had stayed with her since childhood. The lovely garden. Her parents. Her grandmother. Instead she should have written a message and put it in the bottle. Done something beautiful in her last few hours on earth. Helped someone in need. Solved a case. She wanted to go back to the house, but she could not get her legs to move. She stayed where she was, hugging herself, freezing, on the rocks.
Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Toni J. W. Smith. Pauline. No, not Pauline. Toni J. W. Smith.
Oh, hell.
Mia Krüger suddenly woke up. As did her head, her legs, her arms, her blood, her breathing, her senses.
Toni J. W. Smith.
Of course. Of course. Of course. Oh, dear Lord, why had she not seen this earlier? It was so obvious. As clear as day. Mia ran toward the house, tripped in the darkness but got back on her feet, stormed into the living room without closing the door behind her. She continued into the kitchen. She knelt down by the cupboard below the utility sink and started going through the trash can. This was where she had tossed it, wasn’t it? The cell phone he had left for her.
In case you change your mind.
She found the phone in the garbage and rummaged around for the scrap of paper that had accompanied it. A yellow Post-it note with a PIN code and Holger’s number. She went back to the living room, could h
ardly wait now, turned on the phone. Entered the code on the small screen with trembling fingers. Of course. Of course. No wonder it didn’t add up. Everything had to add up. And it did. Toni J. W. Smith. Of course. She was an idiot.
Mia rang Holger’s number and waited impatiently for him to pick up. The call went to voice mail, but she tried the number again. And again. And again, until she finally heard Holger’s sleepy voice on the other end.
“Mia?” Holger yawned.
“I got it,” Mia said breathlessly.
“What have you got? What time is it?”
“Who cares what time it is? I’ve got it.”
“What?”
“Toni J. W. Smith.”
“Seriously? What is it?”
“I think that J.W. is short for Joachim Wicklund. The Swedish suspect from the Hønefoss case. Do you remember him?”
“Of course I do,” Munch mumbled.
“As for Toni Smith,” Mia continued, “I think it’s an anagram: It’s not him. Joachim Wicklund didn’t do it. It’s the same perpetrator, Holger. As in the Hønefoss case.”
Munch was silent for a long time. Mia could practically hear the cogs turn in his brain. It was almost too far out to be true, but even so. It had to be an anagram.
“Don’t you think?” Mia said.
“But that’s insane,” Munch said at length. “Worst thing is, I think you might be right. So are you coming?”
“Yes,” Mia replied. “But this case only. Then I quit. I have other things to do.”
“Of course. It’s up to you,” Munch said.
“Are we back in Mariboesgate?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll catch the plane tomorrow.”
“Great. See you there.”
“You will.”
“Drive carefully, will you?”
“I’m always careful, Holger.”
“You’re never careful, Mia.”
“Screw you, Holger.”
“I love you, too, Mia. Good to have you back. See you tomorrow.”
Mia ended the call and stood for a moment smiling cautiously to herself. Now feeling calm, she walked into the living room and looked at all the pills she had lined up on the dining table.
Come to me, Mia, come.
In her mind she apologized to her twin sister. Sigrid would have to wait a little longer. Mia Krüger had a job to do first.
II
13
Gabriel Mørk felt vaguely twitchy as he waited to be met in Mariboesgate. As far as he knew, Oslo Police had its headquarters in Grønland, so that was where he’d expected to go, but it turned out not to be the case. He had received a short text message: Go to Mariboesgate. Will pick you up at 11 a.m. No sender. Nothing. Strange, really. Come to think of it, his whole week had been strange—entertaining up to a point, sure, but Gabriel Mørk still did not know exactly what he had signed up for.
A job. He’d never had one of those before. Reporting to a boss. Working as part of a team. Joining the real world. Getting up in the morning. Becoming a responsible member of society. Not something this twenty-four-year-old was used to.
Gabriel Mørk liked staying up at night when the rest of the world was asleep. Much easier to think then. With the dark night outside and just the light from the screens glowing in his studio. Calling it a studio was a slight embellishment. Mørk was always reluctant to admit that he was still living at home. Yes, he had his own entrance and his own bathroom, but his mother lived in the same house. It wasn’t very rock ’n’ roll and definitely not something he would bring up on the rare occasions he met new people or bumped into old school friends. Not that it was a problem. He knew several hackers who did the same. Who still lived at home. But even so.
However, his situation was about to change. Completely out of the blue. It was all happening a little too quickly. Or was this what he’d been waiting for his whole life? He had met her online only seven months ago, and already she was pregnant. They were looking for a place together, and now he was standing in the street having gotten himself a job working for the police. Gabriel had never felt that he was very good at anything except computers. In that area few were better than him, but not in other aspects of life. At school he had kept mostly to himself. Blushed whenever a girl came over to invite him to join in something.
He glanced around nervously, but there was no sign of anyone coming to meet him. Perhaps it had all been a joke? Working for the police? At first he’d thought some of his cyberfriends had been messing with him. He knew a couple of people who would think a prank like this would be hilarious. Screw with people. Hack their medical records. Hack lawyers’ offices. Send messages to strangers telling them they were pregnant. Make false paternity claims. Wreak as much havoc as possible. Gabriel Mørk was not that kind of hacker, but he knew many who were. It was possible that someone was setting him up, but he didn’t think so. The guy who’d called him had seemed very credible. They’d gotten his name from GCHQ in Great Britain. MI6. The intelligence service. Like most of his acquaintances, Mørk had had a go at Can You Crack It?—a challenge that had been posted on the Internet the previous autumn. To ordinary people it was a seemingly unbreakable code. One hundred and sixty pairs of numbers and letters with a clock counting down to zero to increase the tension. He had not been the first to solve the code, but neither had he been very far behind. The first to crack it had been a Russian, a black hacker, who cracked the code only a few hours after it had been uploaded to the Net. Mørk knew that the Russian had not cracked the code itself; he’d merely reverse-engineered it by hacking the website, canyoucrackit.co.uk, and found the HTML file, which was supposed to contain the solution. Kind of fun, but not really the point of the challenge.
Gabriel Mørk had spotted right away that it was machine code, x86, and that it implemented the RC4 algorithm. The creators of the code had put in place numerous obstacles, such as hiding a block of data inside a PNG file, so it was not enough merely to decrypt the numbers, but despite this it had taken him only a couple of nights. A fun challenge. The solution to the code itself was not quite as entertaining. The whole thing had turned out to be a PR stunt on behalf of GCHQ, a section of the British intelligence service, a test, a job application. If you can break this code, you are smart enough to work for us.
He had entered his name and explained how he’d cracked the code. Why not? He might as well. He had received a friendly reply that yes, his solution was correct, but unfortunately only British nationals could apply for jobs with the service.
Gabriel Mørk had thought nothing more of it. Not until his cell phone rang last Friday. Today was Thursday, and here he was with his computer under his arm, meeting a stranger before starting some kind of job. Working for the police.
“Gabriel Mørk?”
Gabriel almost jumped and turned around.
“Yes?”
“Hi, my name is Kim Kolsø.”
The man who had spoken his name stuck out his hand. Gabriel had no idea where he’d appeared from. He looked very ordinary; perhaps that would explain it. Somehow he’d been expecting flashing blue lights and sirens, or a uniform, at the very least a brusque tone, but the man now standing in front of him could have been anyone. He was practically invisible. Ordinary trousers, ordinary shoes, an ordinary sweater in colors that didn’t stand out from the crowd in any way, and then it struck Gabriel that this was precisely the point. He was a plainclothes police officer. He was trained to blend in. Not to stand out. To suddenly appear from nowhere.
“Please follow me, it’s this way,” said the man named Kim, and he led Gabriel across the street to a yellow office building.
The police officer produced a key card outside the front door and entered a code. The door opened. Gabriel followed the man to the elevator—same procedure here, you needed a card to operate the elevator as well. Gabriel watched the man furtivel
y as he entered the code. He did not know exactly what to say or if he should say anything at all. He’d never had any dealings with the police. Nor had he ever taken an elevator that required a code. The police officer looked completely at ease, as if he did this all the time. Met new, unknown colleagues in the street. Entered codes in elevators. The two men were the same height, but the police officer was of a slimmer build, and despite his invisibility he looked in great physical shape. He had short dark hair and hadn’t shaved recently. Gabriel was unable to tell if this was on purpose or whether the man just hadn’t gotten around to it. He didn’t want to stare, but he noticed out of the corner of his eye how the police officer suppressed a small yawn, so it was probably the latter. Long days. Heavy caseload would be Gabriel’s guess.
The elevator stopped on the third floor, and the police officer got out first. Gabriel followed him down a long corridor until they reached another door, which also required a card and had a keypad. There were no explanatory signs anywhere. Nothing saying “Police” or listing the names of any other agencies. Total anonymity. The man opened a final door, and they had arrived. The offices were not large, but they were open and light. Some desks put together in an open-plan office, some smaller individual rooms here and there, most with glass walls, others with the curtains drawn. No one paid much attention to the two men who had just arrived, all busy with their own thing.
Gabriel followed the police officer through the open-plan office to a smaller room. One of those with glass walls. Gabriel would be on display, but at least he had his own office.
“This is where you’ll be,” Kim said, letting Gabriel enter first.