by Samuel Bjork
That poor girl.
Why hadn’t he listened to his gut? Kept away from that server. He had a nose for these things, a kind of sixth sense about where to go and what to stay the hell away from when he was online; it had warned him again this time, but he had not listened. The temptation had been too great. What he had found, the film he had seen.
Christ.
Skunk took another drag on his cigarette, turned around quickly and started walking back the same way he had just come. He despaired at his own behaviour. Paranoid? It was not like him. In almost ten years as a hacker he had never been scared. Not once. He had always been in control. Never left behind any traces. He was no amateur. He muttered curses under his breath, chucked the cigarette, crossed the street again, and chose his route home at random, constantly looking over his shoulder.
Skunk could feel the anarchist inside him starting to resurface as he reached Tøyen Park. His conscience never troubled him about doing what he did. He saw it almost as his duty. He was no Robin Hood, he kept all the money for himself, but the people he stole from were so corrupt that they got exactly what they deserved. His business concept was as simple as it was brilliant. He would pick a company he did not like, discover a security weakness in its servers and collect information about dishonest transactions, which most businesses were involved in – corruption, bribery, breaches of environmental legislation, anything – and then make them pay.
Skunk shook his head. If the people of Norway knew what they were up to, these big, popular companies whose services they used, whose products were in every shop and whose owners were regarded as pillars of the community – if the public knew how these companies really made their money, how they had grown as rich as they had – then people might have rebelled.
It was never difficult. He never encountered problems. Every time he found something, and he pretty much always did, he would send an anonymous email with his discoveries and ask for money in order not to go public with it. Virtual blackmail. Of idiots who deserved it. And they were always willing to pay. They always had skeletons in their closets. Always. Skunk’s conscience was absolutely clear.
But this was different.
This film.
This was not just a company making an illegal payment to an old Soviet state to get the monopoly to sell its product to the communications market. Or a transfer to an African leader who had already squandered millions of development aid on his own personal consumption, or quid pro quos, permits to drill an oilfield, the sale of weapons, landmines or ammunition.
It was not one of those.
It was …
Shit.
Skunk lit another cigarette in an attempt to clear his head. There was always Gabriel Mørk.
They had started out together years ago and, at first, it had just been a bit of fun. In front of the computers in their bedrooms, Electron and Phoenix, from an age when there was hardly any Internet and computers had a storage capacity of only 10MB, with processors the size of calculators, and yet the two of them had hacked everything – NASA, CIA – but back then it had been just a game; they had got a kick out of it, he and Gabriel, every time they had managed to break into a system that was said to be impenetrable, until one day, Gabriel had switched camps.
That was why they had drifted apart. Gabriel thought they should use their skills for good, not to destroy, not to create chaos, and they had had a massive row the last time they saw each other, over a beer at Teddy’s Soft Bar. They had not spoken since. The last he had heard was that Gabriel had started working for the police.
Shit, shit, shit.
Skunk took a fresh drag on his cigarette and made up his mind.
It had to be.
Gabriel Mørk. There was no other way. Skunk tossed the cigarette, checked over his shoulder again and made his way home to his bunker.
Chapter 20
Mia Krüger summoned the waiter, ordered a Guinness and a Jägermeister and waited for him to leave before she opened the file in front of her.
She was in the venerable old pub at the bottom of Hegdehaugsveien where she had started seeking solace when her flat, which was only a few minutes away, grew too lonely and cold.
She had found a table she liked, in the far corner, where she could hide, be alone with her thoughts, while at the same time feeling there was life around her. Mia had always liked this place. As a student, she had spent a great deal of time here. There were booths with red leather seats and white tablecloths. Waiters in white shirts with bow-ties. A varied clientele, everything from businessmen in suits to shabby-looking artists and writers. You could hide here but, more importantly, it was one of the few venues in Oslo that did not play music. Mia preferred the silence, the muted voices over clattering glasses, to the constant intrusion of noise from loudspeakers.
She took a big gulp of her beer and stared at the first photograph. A naked girl. Posed in a pentagram of candles. On a bed of feathers. Wearing a blonde wig. With a flower in her mouth. Mia drained her beer, felt the alcohol kick in, ordered another round and took a pen and notepad from her bag.
Three months.
Skinny. Grazes and blisters.
Animal feed in her stomach.
Went missing three months before she was found.
The voices around her slowly faded away while she disappeared more and more deeply into her thoughts.
That had to be it.
Someone had kept her prisoner.
Here. In Norway. While ordinary people got up in the morning, said goodbye to their loved ones, went to work, chatted over lunch, picked up their kids from nursery, had dinner, did the housework, watched the news, went to bed, turned off their bedside lamp in the expectation of another, ordinary day, seventeen-year-old Camilla Green had been trapped somewhere, almost starved to death, terrified, alone.
Mia Krüger took a swig of her second Guinness, pressed her lips shut and tried her best not to let herself be taken back to the place she had been less than twenty-four hours ago. This evil. This darkness.
Come, Mia, come.
No.
Come, Mia.
No, not now.
But we can be together!
No, Sigrid, I have to …
‘Another round?’
Mia Krüger was roused by the waiter standing in front of her.
‘Huh?’
‘Another round?’ The old waiter with the bow-tie nodded at the empty glasses in front of her.
‘Yes, please,’ Mia said, and managed to produce a small smile.
The waiter nodded politely, returned with two fresh drinks and disappeared back into the room.
Sod it.
Mia put the file back into her bag and drained the shot glass with trembling fingers.
Crap.
Perhaps she had lost it. Her talent. Her ability to see things other people could not. The reason Munch had picked her out from the police college, before she had even finished her training. Perhaps the therapist had been right.
I think it’s your job that’s making you ill.
You care too much.
I think it might kill you.
Mia lay the pen on her notepad and put on her jacket. She nodded to the bouncer and stepped outside for a bit of fresh air. She found a chair and watched two drunk businessmen smoke while they discussed a deal they had made during the day.
He dresses her up.
She had tried to push it aside, yet now it crept up on her again.
He dresses her up. A blonde wig. A flower in her mouth. He makes her look nice. He gets her ready. Camilla. She is naked. The virgin. He needs her for something. Something we can’t see.
Mia walked unsteadily past the bouncers, back to her table, and put pen to paper again.
He?
Or was there more than one?
Her mobile vibrated on the table in front of her, the display said ‘Holger’, but she just let it ring.
Mia took a sip of her beer and thought more deeply. The wig. Why this partic
ular wig? Camilla was not exactly blonde. Was that why? Blonde? She had to be blonde, because …? Seventeen years old. Young. Scandinavian. Blonde. Thin? Had he starved her because he wanted her to be thinner? Was that why she had been imprisoned? Because she had to look like this? Exactly like this? The pen raced across the sheet now, as the room around her disappeared. She has to look like this. The wig. Blonde and skinny. She is not herself. She is not meant to be herself. It’s not Camilla, lying there. It is someone else. Who is lying there? Who are you?
Mia drained her glass, almost without noticing it, then continued to scribble on the paper.
A present.
The candles and the feathers.
They are the wrapping.
The flower.
She is presented to someone as a gift.
‘More?’
A baffled Mia looked up from her notes, not quite sure where she was. She had been close to something, something deep inside, but reality had called her back.
‘Another round?’ the waiter asked.
‘Yes.’ Mia nodded quickly, trying to get back to the place she had been, but the feeling was gone. There were only drunk people with their beer glasses in the booths now, and she became aware of just how much alcohol she had consumed; she was barely able to read the display on her mobile.
Holger Munch.
He had called her six times.
And sent her a text message.
Where are you? Call.
She found his number and tried to pull herself together as she heard the ring tone far, far away. Mia could not put her finger on it, but there was something about Munch which made her feel guilty. For drinking so much. For being depressed. For wanting to disappear. He had had high hopes of her, perhaps that was the reason. She could vividly recall their first meeting. He had tried to make out that she would be incredibly lucky to be offered a place with the newly created investigation unit he would be heading, but during the entire interview it had become so blatantly obvious that he wanted her at any cost that she had not felt uncomfortable or nervous. He was good like that, Holger. That was why she was so fond of him. He loathed talking about his feelings, and yet he was almost transparent. Or he was to her. Come, Mia, come.
The waiter returned with another round as she heard her boss’s deep voice on the other end.
‘Yes?’ Munch grunted.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘You called me,’ Mia retorted, hoping she sounded relatively sober.
‘Right,’ Munch replied. He sounded as if he was busy doing something else, as if it had slipped his mind that he had called her earlier. ‘We’ve had two phone calls from the press, some hours ago, one from Dagbladet, the other from VG,’ he said, concentrating now. ‘The cat is out of the bag, if I can put it like that. They will be printing pictures from the crime scene tomorrow. They might already be available online.’
‘From the crime scene?’ Mia was surprised. ‘How did they get hold of them?’
‘Beats me,’ Munch growled. ‘But there’s not a lot we can do about it, so we just have to deal with it. I’ve spoken to Anette, and she will take it up with Grønland tomorrow morning. We will hold a press conference at nine o’clock, and we’ll just have to take it from there. But …’ Munch fell silent again, as if pondering what to say next.
‘But what?’
‘We’ve got it under control, but it’s important that …’ Munch cleared his throat.
‘What is?’
Another silence followed.
‘You need to keep a low profile,’ Munch then said hurriedly, as if it was something he had dreaded telling her.
‘What do you mean?’ Mia asked.
‘We need to keep you on the outside.’
‘Outside, how?’
‘You’re not officially back at work, so, well, you know how these things work; with your reputation, if the newspapers find out that you’re working on the case, while you’re still suspended, then …’
Mia could feel herself getting irritated. She reached for her beer and took a long swig.
‘Are you still there?’ Munch asked feebly.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ Mia said abruptly. ‘Has Mikkelson been after you?’
‘Well, yes, but …’
Munch seemed uncomfortable about the whole situation, and Mia saw no point in giving him a hard time. It was not his fault. She knew that if Munch had been in charge, then he would have done anything for her.
‘Relax, Holger,’ she said, and managed to calm herself down. ‘I can be invisible, if you need me to be. No problem.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, sounding relieved.
Why would she want to talk to the papers, anyway? They had persecuted her for weeks back when she shot Markus Skog, Sigrid’s boyfriend. She had not been able to leave her flat and, eventually, she had been forced to hide in a hotel in another part of Oslo. No, definitely not. She had absolutely no problem keeping a low profile.
‘No problem. Don’t worry about it, Holger. So, online tonight, and on the front pages tomorrow morning?’
‘Sounds like it,’ Munch said, happy that she was changing the topic.
‘But they’re not going to show pictures of the body, are they?’
‘No, no. They’re a bunch of morons but, occasionally, they have some kind of moral code, oddly enough.’
‘So what will they publish?’
‘Just the crime scene.’
‘Pictures from the location where the body was found?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I’m guessing they have the pentagram, the candles, the feathers from where she was lying. Bloody vultures. Ludvig is trying to figure out how they got them. And speaking of …’
Mia took another swig of her beer as she saw a familiar face appear at the door. A compact bulldog of a man with a shaved head was arguing with one of the bouncers, who clearly had no intention of letting him in.
‘Ludvig has information about the feathers.’
‘What?’ Mia said, getting up.
‘The feathers from the crime scene,’ Munch continued. ‘They’re owl feathers.’
‘An owl? All the feathers?’
‘Yes, apparently. Not that I know how they can tell them apart, but—’
‘We’ll have to do this tomorrow,’ Mia interrupted him. ‘Something has come up my end, OK?’
‘What? Yes, OK. Team briefing at ten o’clock.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Great, and thanks for, well, you know,’ Munch mumbled.
‘No problem,’ Mia rounded off, now on her way to the squabble by the door.
‘Mia.’ Curry grinned and held out his arms to her when he spotted her.
‘He’s not coming in.’
‘I’m not pissed, you moron,’ Curry slurred, freeing himself from the massive bouncer’s grip on his arm.
‘It’s fine,’ Mia said. ‘He’s coming with me. Just let me get my things.’
‘Mia, tell him!’ Curry said, tripping over his own feet and crashing to the floor.
‘He’s banned. We don’t want to see him here again,’ the bouncer said sternly when Mia returned to the door with her bag.
‘How can I be banned? I haven’t even been inside yet. And I’m not drunk. You should see me when I am drunk …’
‘Come on, Curry,’ Mia said, and flashed the bouncer an apologetic smile as she ushered her colleague out of the pub.
THREE
Chapter 21
The man with the white bicycle helmet did not like leaving the house, but he had no choice today, because there was nothing left in the fridge. He had hoped that the food would last longer, the groceries he had bought the last time he went shopping; he could not quite remember when, but it was some time ago. Possibly last Tuesday, or was it in April? No, April, he was quite sure of that; April followed March, and March was a long time ago. In March the bin men had come to collect everything he had put in the green container by the outhouse. No, not in
March, on Tuesdays, they emptied the bins on Tuesdays, when he would usually hide in the bathroom, so he was sure about that. Not in March. On Tuesdays, he would hide in the bathroom so they would not come to the house to ask if they could borrow his telephone or use his lavatory, because they had done that once. And the bin man with the gloves had peed on the edge of the toilet seat and laughed at him for wearing his bicycle helmet inside, and ever since then he had hidden himself in the bathroom every time they came.
Every Tuesday. In March. No, not only March, every month. October. It was October now. He had turned the page on his calendar some days ago. Yes, he had, he remembered that. Going from September to October. September had had a picture of a seagull. And now the seagull was no longer there; instead, there was a fox. Quite a cunning fox, with a tail that was white at the tip, and it had winked at him as he sat at the kitchen table eating the last tin of tuna. It had made him realize that the fridge was empty and that, although he did not want to, he would soon have to cycle down to the shop again, and hope that they would not laugh at him, like they usually did.
Furtively. That was how they did it. Not when he was in there, no, never then; at times they would even pretend to be friendly. The young woman with the chewing gum, and the other woman who was behind the till, when he showed them the list he had written of the things he needed, they pretended to be kind to him then. Walked around with him and helped him put things in the basket, crispbread and tins of mackerel in tomato sauce and pork chops; they would not laugh then. Nor when it was time to pay either, even when he was unable to make the money in his wallet match the number on the till. Not then either – they would pretend to be nice and help him count – but afterwards. When he had left the shop and pretended to have cycled home but was really watching from behind the bottle bank, or from behind the van, which said ‘Hurumlandet Supermarket’, then they would laugh at him, laugh out loud while slapping their knees, because he always wore his bicycle helmet. It took twenty-four minutes to cycle each way, if the road was not too slippery, as it was today, and he realized that he was dreading it more than usual as he unlocked his bicycle and pushed it carefully down to the main road.