I'm Traveling Alone

by Samuel Bjork

  “What have you got?” Munch asked her.

  “Karoline Mykle, aged six, missing from her home.”

  “Any sign of a break-in?”

  “No, the key was under the mat.”

  Dear Lord. Munch heaved a sigh. Under the mat. Did people still do that these days? “Blood?”

  “Traces of blood from the passage and into the bedroom.”

  “Parents?”

  “Cecilie and John-Erik Mykle. Neither of them has a record. He works on the oil rigs. We’re trying to contact him. She’s a teacher.”

  “A teacher?”

  “Yes, but it’s not her. She’s in a state of complete shock. I’ve sent her off to Ullevål Hospital. She didn’t even know where she was. She kept saying she didn’t have time to talk to us. She had to take Karoline to nursery school.”

  “I see,” Munch said.

  “We’re about to start door-to-door inquiries to ask if anyone saw anything.”

  “Yes, that’s what we’re about to do as well,” Munch said.

  “ALPHA1 procedure on this one?”

  Munch nodded.

  “Holger?”

  “What? Yes, I want everyone working on this. Everyone. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. I want them to check every single road, every fucking footpath, understand?”

  “Understand,” Mia said, and ended the call.

  Holger took another deep drag of his cigarette. His headache was arriving with a vengeance. Some water. He needed fluids. And food. His phone rang again.

  “Yes, Munch here.”

  “It’s Gabriel Mørk. Is it a bad time?”

  “Depends what it is,” Munch growled.

  “You know that private job you gave me?”

  Munch rubbed his forehead.

  “The code,” Gabriel continued.

  Munch sifted through his memories before the penny dropped. The math puzzle he’d been unable to solve. The one the Swedish girl had sent him on the Net.

  “Did you crack it?”

  Munch walked back inside the house. He took care not to contaminate any of the bloodstains or touch anything. The technicians were still at work.

  “I think I understand what it is, but I need more.”

  “What do you mean, more?”

  “Do you want to talk about it later?”

  Munch walked through to the front of the house, went outside, and lit another cigarette. They had moved the police tape farther down the street now. Keeping the press at bay for as long as they could. He dreaded reporting the latest developments to Mikkelson. Two dead girls. No suspects. And now another two were missing. There would be hell to pay down at Grønland.

  “I think it’s a Gronsfeld,” Gabriel said.

  “A what?”

  “A Gronsfeld cipher. A code language. It’s a variant of Vigenère, but it uses numbers rather than letters. However, I need more. Did you get anything else?”

  Munch struggled to concentrate. “More? I’m not sure. What would that be?”

  “Letters and numbers. The way Gronsfeld works is that both parties, both the sender and recipient, possess the same combination of letters and numbers. It makes it impossible for an outsider to crack the code.”

  “I can’t think of anything,” Munch said just as Kim walked through the gate. “We’ll have to do it later.”

  “Okay,” Gabriel said, and hung up.

  “Anything?” Munch asked.

  Kim shook his head. “Most people are out at work at this time, so we’ll do another round in the early evening.”

  “Nothing? Damn, surely somebody must have seen something?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Do it again,” Munch said.

  “But we’ve just—”

  “I said do it again.”

  The young police officer nodded and walked back out through the gate.

  Munch was just about to return to the house when Mia called again. “Yes?”

  He could tell from her voice that they had discovered something.

  “It’s a woman,” was all she said.

  “We have a witness?”

  “A senior citizen living right opposite. Trouble sleeping. He looked out his window, he thinks it was about four o’clock in the morning. Saw someone hanging around a mailbox. So he went outside to check.”

  “Tough senior.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He shouted at her. She ran away.”

  “And he’s quite sure that it was a woman?”

  “He’s a hundred percent sure. He was only a few meters away from her.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I told you so, didn’t I?” Mia said eagerly. “I knew it.”

  “Yes, you told me so. Is he with you now?”

  “We’re bringing him in.”

  “See you at the office in ten minutes?”

  “Sure,” Mia said, and hung up.

  Munch did not exactly run, but it was not far short. A woman. He quickly got behind the wheel and drove toward the cordon. There was a sea of flashes when he passed the huge crowd of journalists and reporters. At least they had something for the vultures.

  A woman.

  Munch placed the blue flashing light on the roof and drove to the city center as fast as he could.

  III

  32

  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 erecting 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 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 keeping himself informed. It was his way to feel alive now that he was no longer part of the action.

  Lex, his puppy, stirred in its basket before it padded over to him. It settled by his feet with its head to one side and its tongue hanging out. The German shepherd 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 holding a microphone appeared in front of a camera. A residential development in Skullerud could be seen in the background. Police cordons. A girl had gone missing from there. He’d heard the news one hour ago. He got up and grabbed the puppy by the collar. Guided it out onto the steps, into the garden, and attached it to the tie-out line. He didn’t 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 check. He ate his dinner in front of the television. A police sketch 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.

  Tom-Erik Sørlie turned down the volume on the television and got up to make himself a cup of coffee. Was that a noise he heard? Was there someon
e in the garden? He put on his shoes and went outside. The dog was no longer attached to the tie-out 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 jump rope.

  33

  Mia Krüger crossed the road and started walking up Tøyengata. She tried to ignore the newspaper headlines. She passed yet another kiosk that had her life on display. MYSTERY WOMAN: STILL NO LEADS. The police sketch of the woman seen by the retiree on the front page. There was nothing wrong with the police sketch. Just as 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 neighbor, their colleague, their niece, someone they’d seen on line for a ferry the day before. The switchboard at police headquarters had been jammed; they’d had to shut it down, take a break. Rumor 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 did not understand it. It made no sense. It did not fit with the other evidence. They’d tested the blood, and 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 did not add up. With the woman seen in Skullerud. With the police sketch. She got the feeling that 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 Citroën. 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’d been nearly eight hundred 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’d 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, social workers, relatives, receptionists, cleaners—she had personally spoken to nearly a hundred people. All of them 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 could not shelve the case fast enough. Sweep it under the rug. A blot on the force. It was a question of moving on.

  Mia Krüger crossed the street again and entered a courtyard. It had been 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 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 here?”

  The hatch was shut again. A couple of minutes passed, and then the man returned. He opened the door for her and let her in. The security guard was new, someone she hadn’t seen 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 farther into the room.

  Charlie Brown 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 wearier, but as colorful 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 told him, and sat down.

  There were only six or seven men in the club, most of them wearing women’s clothing. Leopard-print leggings 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 Brown said, shaking his head. “Do you want a beer?”

  “What, you finally got a license 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 the way it used to. We’re getting old, or at 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 cap 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 makeup every now and then, even though you’re a girl. Right, I’ve got it off my chest. Mama Charlie always tells it like it is.”

  “Thank you.” Mia knocked back her Jägermeister. It warmed her all the way down her throat.

  “Could we have a bottle of champagne over here, Charlie?” someone called.

  “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,” the man whose name was Linda said with a giggle.

  “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,” C
harlie said when he came back. “I thought we had lost you.”

  “Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated,” Mia said.

  “A bit of rouge, a touch of foundation, and I would agree.” Charlie tittered. “Oh, that was naughty of me. What a naughty girl I am.”

  Charlie Brown leaned over the counter and gave her a big hug. Mia had to smile. It was a long time since she’d 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.”

  Mia laughed. “That’s quite all right.”

  “Two million.”

  “That’s enough, Charlie.”

  “Ten million. Another Jäger?”

  Mia gave him a thumbs-up.

  “So what’s up?” Charlie said when they’d both emptied their glasses.

  “I need your help,” Mia said, and she produced a photograph from the inside pocket of her jacket.

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

  “Ah, Randi.” Charlie nodded. “Tragic story.”

  “Was he one of your customers? Sorry, I mean she.”

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

  “Yes, Randi used to come here,” he told her. “From time to time. Sometimes she would come often, and then several months would pass before we saw her again. Roger was one of those who . . . well, how do I put it? Who 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 her to leave when she started bothering the other guests.”