by Samuel Bjork
Benjamin Bache rose when he saw her and came toward 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 are featured in the newspapers are in the same boat, we’re a community, and we stick together. It was so not Mia’s cup of tea, 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 theater before more rehearsals tonight.”
“Sure.” Mia nodded. “I’m not hungry, but I can watch you eat.”
“Sounds great.” Benjamin gestured for her to follow him across the street.
She was not surprised to discover that Benjamin Bache was on a first-name basis 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 forced a smile. Everyone was so chummy. It was a form of manipulation, she knew that, but she couldn’t tell 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, no doubt about that. Mia could only hope that Susanne hadn’t been dumb enough to get involved with a guy like him. That she hadn’t shed tears over him. No, he was unlikely to be the one. Susanne preferred older men. Men who could take care of her. 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 guy?
“I must say I was surprised when you called,” Benjamin said once he had ordered. “What is this really about?”
Mia realized he had said almost the same line in the film she’d 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 in a knowing way. 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 Nursing Home?”
“Yes, that’s right. What is this really about?”
“Who lives at the Hansteensgate 20 address?”
“It’s my apartment. I’ve lived there for seven years.”
“Since your great-grandmother went into nursing 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 said. “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, 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 said. “Where was her mail sent to?”
“Whose mail?”
“Veronica Bache’s.”
“What about her mail?”
“I’m asking if her mail was sent to the nursing home or to your address?”
Benjamin Bache seemed perplexed.
“Eh, most of it went to Høvikveien Nursing Home. What kind of mail do you mean? Some of it was sent to me, but I either forwarded it to the nursing home or took it with me when I visited her. What kind of mail 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 cell-phone 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 used to be hers?”
“My great-grandmother never owned a cell phone in her life,” Benjamin said. “She hated them. And why would she want one? All the residents had their own private landlines.”
Mia took back the piece of paper and stuffed it into her pocket.
“Thank you,” she said, getting up. “That was all I needed to know. Thanks for your time.”
“Was that all?” Benjamin Bache said, seeming 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 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 toward to him.
“We’re so close to cracking this case, and if you’re able to help me, perhaps I can solve it as early as tonight.”
“A major case?” Benjamin, too, moved forward as he whispered it to her.
Mia nodded and placed her finger against her lips. Benjamin nodded back. Then he sat upright again and, as the accomplished actor he was, pretended that nothing had happened.
“This will be just between the two of us, okay?” 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 assured him.
“We agreed to a settlement,” Benjamin said quickly.
“What kind of settlement?”
“She changed her will just before she died.”
“How much would the church get?”
“Everything.” He 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 cell-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 stood 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 cap and left Theatercaféen with a smile on her lips.
41
Tobias Iversen made himself as small as possible as he crept toward 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 farther 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 gray 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 go home to the dark house where no one ever smiled. Tobias was just thirteen years old, but he felt much older. He’d been old for a long time. He’d been subjected to things no child should ever experience, but right now it didn’t matter. Out here he could do what he wanted.
Tobias wormed his way to the edge and raised the binoculars to his eyes. The farmyard was quiet. He didn’t know what time it was, but it had to be early, because it was not properly light yet. He could see everything much more clearly now; last night he’d 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 that might contain cement—he could see a cement mixer, a small tractor, and a small backhoe. 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 until it grew too dark to see anything through the binoculars. He had made a small sketch of the area, noting the locations 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 the one way in. The gate. He could not 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-V. Tobias didn’t know much about cars. He wasn’t terribly interested in them; he preferred mopeds and motorbikes, preferably those with cross-country tires that could go off-road, but he knew a little.
There had been two people in the car, and they’d been received as if one of them were the king or the prime minister. There was a young man with short blond hair, who must be a servant or a guard or something because he 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 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 shock of white hair, and then they all went inside the large building with the cross at the top. After that it grew dark, and Tobias 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 that obscured—Tobias didn’t know what it was called. Afterward he ate his sandwiches and heated some soup on the camp 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’d been a polar bear around or something; at any rate he’d been okay.
At first Tobias 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 was not easy; they’d had a discussion in class once because some of the girls had worn skimpy clothes. Emilie had spent a whole lesson discussing not Norwegian or books but stuff like girls wearing too much makeup or showing their midriffs 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 panties and fishnet stockings while they sang. Afterward they’d agreed on some rules about what was allowed and what was not, 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 were imaginary, 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’d missed anything on the sketch he 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 it had a large hinged gate that opened inward. There appeared to be 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’d refilled from the river. He had to make a plan now—that was important. First he had to get a clearer idea of the area; he’d learned that from a film he saw about some men who wanted to rob a bank—no, a casino in Las Vegas. They had lots of maps and blueprints and held many 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 gray dress. His heart leaped underneath his sweater. 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, so hard that 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 were not far behind her now, Tobias could see them waving their hands, shouting something. Rakel neared the fence, and finally she reached it. She started to climb it, but it looked like she was having trouble. The holes in the mesh were small, and her heavy dress didn’t help. The men approached rapidly, 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’d drawn, and made his way stealthily down the mound, toward the farm.
42
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 and collapsed breathlessly on the chair opposite her.
“What happened?” Mia asked.
“The killer contacted Aftenposten some days ago. He called a journalist named Mikkel Wold. Di
storted 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 agitated.
“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 would think about it but that my interviewing them would probably suffice.”
“Seriously?”
“Damn 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?” Mia asked.
“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 got his food and 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.
“Okay,” she 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.