I'm Traveling Alone

by Samuel Bjork

  “Hello? Rakel? Are you there?”

  45

  Munch was already waiting outside the hotel when Mia appeared. She got into the black Audi and tried to force herself to wake up. The pill she’d 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?” she 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 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 on either side of a stake.”

  “A stake?”

  Munch nodded.

  “What kind of stake?”

  “A wooden one. With a pig’s head on top.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said. The girls were lying on the grass on either side of a wooden stake with a pig’s head stuck on 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 heat and took the tunnel by Rådhusplassen to get out of the city center.

  “It’s hard to say,” Mia replied.

  The heat 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’s a bag of mints in there,” Munch said, pointing to the glove compartment.

  “And?”

  “You need one,” Munch said as he turned onto Drammensveien.

  Mia felt a flash of irritation, but it passed quickly. She opened the glove compartment and took out the bag of mints. Put two in her month before stuffing the whole bag into the pocket of her leather jacket.

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

  “We’re too slow on the uptake,” Mia said, taking out her cell phone.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The killer is telling us we’re doing a bad job.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  Mia found Gabriel Mørk in her list of contacts.

  “Gabriel speaking.”

  “Hi, it’s Mia, are you at work?”

  “Yep.”

  “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 from 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. “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-wood 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 . . . the wise men seem to be in disagreement here, but it could be from the French Île Grande, ‘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 phone between her ear and shoulder and popped another mint. 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 retirees 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?”

  “Okay.”

  Mia passed her phone to Munch.

  “Yes, Munch speaking.”

  Munch’s Mothers. She’d 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 phone back to Mia.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing important, just a private matter.”

  “He’s good,” she said.

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

  Mia opened the window slightly.

  “Did you get anything from him? About Isegran Fort?” Munch asked.

  “Absolutely.” 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?” He narrowed his eyes and banged the steering wheel hard.

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

  “An hour and a half,” Munch said.

  “I think I’ll take a nap,” she said.

  “Good idea,” he agreed. “Have one for me, too, while you’re at it.”

  46

  The sun was rising when they reached the police cordon. Munch showed them his ID card and they were waved through by a young police officer with messy hair who looked as if he had just gotten out of bed. They parked the car outside a small red building with a sign that said 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 d
id. Their little town had always been proud that he’d lived there, even though the fine ladies back in the day had twirled their parasols in disgust when they encountered the disreputable artist. Typical, wasn’t it, Mia thought, as she spotted the white plastic tent that the crime-scene officers had erected. Back then they despised him, but today we conveniently forget all about that.

  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 kids sober up so quickly in all my life. I think the discovery evaporated the alcohol right out of them.”

  “Any observations from the neighborhood?” Mia asked.

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

  “Why not?” Mia said.

  “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 coverall 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 me 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 deaths?”

  “The same,” Vik told her.

  “They were killed in situ?”

  “It looks like it. 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 of his cigarette. “What can I say? For a ritual murder, it’s very tidy. The girls are neat and clean. Dressed. Backpacks. 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 toward the parking lot. Munch and Mia put on the white coveralls that had been set 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 backpack had been placed by her feet. Andrea Lyng lay only a few meters away, and she, too, had her hands folded on her chest and a backpack near her white shoes. Both girls wore identical signs around their necks, just like Pauline and Johanne: I’m traveling 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 the girl’s 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 phone rang. He looked at the display but ignored the call. The phone rang again.

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” he said, and pressed the red button for the second time.

  “Language,” Mia said.

  She angled her head 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 phone started to ring. She saw Gabriel’s name on the display.

  “Gabriel?” Munch whispered.

  Mia indicated that it was and pressed the button to ignore the call. “Did he just call you?”

  Munch said that he had as Mia’s phone rang yet again. She stepped outside the tent to answer the call.

  “This had better be important,” she snarled.

  Gabriel sounded upset, almost out of breath. “I have to talk to Munch,” he panted.

  “He’s busy, what is it?”

  “I’ve decoded the message, and—” 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.”

  Mia sighed. “Surely it can wait?”

  “No, it definitely can’t!” The young hacker was practically screaming through 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 were too scared to say what he’d found out.

  “Gabriel?” Mia said impatiently.

  “Tick-tock little Marion = 5.”

  “What?”

  “Tick-tock little Marion is number five.”

  “Christ!” Mia exclaimed, and ran into the tent to tell Holger Munch.

  IV

  47

  Miriam Munch was sitting in the back of her father’s Audi trying to keep her emotions in check. On orders from her father, she wore a woolly cap pulled over her ears and large sunglasses. Marion was lying on the seat next to her, curled up under a blanket that completely concealed the little girl. Miriam had not understood very much when her father woke her two days ago and told her to lock all the doors. Don’t let anyone in. Keep Marion home from nursery school.

  What do you mean, keep her home from nursery school?

  For God’s sake, Miriam, just do as I say!

  The thought had occurred to her, obviously. Miriam Munch wasn’t stupid. Quite the contrary. Miriam Munch had always been one of the smartest girls in school. Ever since she was little, she found it incredibly easy to do what others struggled with. Rivers in Asia. Capitals of South America. Fractions. Algebra. English. Norwegian. She’d soon learned to keep quiet about her cleverness, not to come in first on every test, not to raise her hand too often. She also possessed emotional intelligence. She wanted to have friends. She did not want to be thought of as better than anyone else.

  So of course the possibility had crossed her mind. Her daughter was due to start school this autumn. And her father was heading the investigation into the murder of four girls. She wasn’t an idiot. But she had been stubborn. There was no way she would allow herself to be intimidated. Her life would not be destroyed by some madman. She’d taken precautions, of course—who hadn’t? She took Marion to and from nursery school herself. She had already said no to letting Marion go to birthday parties, to her daughter’s great despair. She had organized a meeting at the nursery school with staff and parents of all girls due to start school this autumn. Some of the parents had taken time off work, too frightened to send their children to nursery school, some thought the nursery school ought to shut temporarily, others wanted to be with their children—it was mayhem, but Miriam had managed to calm them down. Convinced them that it was about living as normal a life as possible. Not least for the girls’ sake. But all the time there’d been a nagging voice at the back of her head: You might be at greater risk. You have the most to fear. And now this.

  Miriam wrapped the blanket more tightly around her daughter, who was sound asleep. It was dark outside, and the black Audi drove smoothly through the almost deserted streets. Miriam Munch was not fri
ghtened, but she was concerned. And sad. And frustrated. And irritated. And outraged.

  “Is everything okay in the back?”

  Mia Krüger turned to look at her. They had yet to tell Miriam why she was being moved again, the second time in as many days, but deep down they guessed she knew.

  “We’re fine,” Miriam assured her. “Where are we going this time?”

  “An apartment we have at our disposal,” her father said, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Isn’t it about time someone told me what’s going on?” Miriam said.

  She tried sounding stern, but she was exhausted. She had barely slept for two days.

  “It’s for your own good,” her father said, looking up at her in the mirror again.

  “Has the killer made a threat against Marion? Are you doing this just to be on the safe side? I have a right to know what’s going on, don’t I?”

  “You’re safe as long as you do what I say,” her father said, jumping a red light at an intersection.

  She knew what her father was like once he’d made up his mind about something, so she didn’t push him. Suddenly she felt fourteen again. He had been incredibly strict when she was younger, but he’d mellowed with age. Back in those days, there was no point in trying to talk to him. No, Miriam, you can’t wear that to school, that skirt is far too short. No, Miriam, you have to be home by ten. No, Miriam, I don’t like you seeing that Robert, I don’t think he’s good for you. Her paranoid police-officer father micromanaging her teenage life. It had raised her status among her friends, though. Those who had it toughest at home got the most sympathy from the other students at school. Besides, she knew how to pull the wool over her father’s eyes, no matter how good a police officer he was. Toward the end he’d barely been at home, which meant he rarely presented a problem for her. Her mother, too, had been bound up in her own concerns. Christ Almighty, adults, parents—did they really think their children didn’t know what was going on? Miriam had known about Rolf before the eruption at home. Her mother, whose routine you could set your watch by. Who suddenly had to “see a friend”? Who suddenly got a lot of calls, which turned out to be “wrong numbers”? Please.