The Owl Always Hunts At Night

by Samuel Bjork

  ‘So why are we still talking about it?’ Munch wanted to know.

  Mia smiled faintly. ‘You’re the one who keeps talking about it, not me.’

  ‘So you think we should release them tonight?’

  ‘It might be worth having another go. Something useful might turn up tomorrow, though I very much doubt it.’

  Mia smiled politely to the waiter who brought her another beer.

  ‘So you think Benedikte threw the mobile in a bin afterwards and that we won’t ever find it?’

  Mia nodded and raised the glass to her lips. She had made up her mind now: no more pills, even though she knew it was going to be hard. She would miss the haziness they gave her and their ability to suppress the images in her head.

  The naked, twisted body on the heather.

  The shadow on the wall.

  The nightmare which had made her lose her grip on reality for a moment.

  I think it’s your job that’s making you ill.

  This evil.

  This darkness.

  Thank God, she could feel the beer kicking in now.

  ‘And nothing from the Natural History Museum?’ Munch said, taking another sip of his Farris.

  ‘Waste of time,’ Mia said. ‘How about Ludvig? The wig? The specialist shop?’

  ‘No luck there either.’ Munch sighed. ‘It wasn’t bought from them, but I believe there’s another shop which he’ll try tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So what do we think? If the two people we’ve currently got locked up didn’t do it, who did?’

  ‘Helene Eriksen. The two teachers. One of the seven other girls.’

  ‘Anders Finstad has been crossed off the list?’

  ‘The way I see it, yes.’

  ‘So it’s someone from the Nurseries?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Munch let out a sigh and fell silent for a moment. And Mia realized why he was still considering the possibility that Paulus and Benedikte might have done it. Because they had no other potential suspects. So much information, so much evidence, and yet they were fumbling about in the dark, and Munch hated it.

  ‘Still nothing from the crime scene?’ Mia asked.

  Munch shook his head in despair. ‘No footprints. No DNA from Camilla’s body.’

  ‘She wasn’t pregnant, was she?’

  ‘What? No, not according to Vik, why?’ Munch looked at her with interest.

  ‘The pentagram,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve been looking into it. Its symbolism.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I mean, there has to be a reason why she was posed like that. Unless someone is trying to mislead us?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Munch said. ‘And what did you find? Is this about pregnancy?’

  ‘Not exactly, but, yes, you remember how her arms had been arranged?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Pointing at two candles in the pentagram?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They’re significant,’ Mia continued. ‘The five points represent spirit, water, fire, earth and air.’

  ‘Right,’ Munch said. ‘But what do they have to do with pregnancy?’

  ‘There’s another level of symbolism.’

  Mia could see that she was losing him now.

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘The deeper symbolism shows that her arms were pointing at something else. Mother. And birth.’

  ‘Right,’ Munch said, frowning. ‘But she wasn’t pregnant?’

  ‘No, but I still think it could be relevant. I need time to look into it. See if I can find something we can use, something which ties in with everything else we have. I thought I might shut myself away, explore it.’

  ‘Do whatever you need, as long as you leave your mobile on,’ Munch said, and put on his duffel coat. ‘I need some sleep now. I still have a faint hope we might get more out of the two of them tomorrow. Do you want to share a cab?’

  Mia could see from his expression that this was not a question. He was being Daddy Holger now. Who wanted to make sure that she got home to bed in time.

  ‘Yes, that would be great.’ Mia smiled, feigning a yawn before getting up and putting on her leather jacket.

  Chapter 48

  Mia Krüger waited until the rear lights on the taxi had disappeared before pulling her woolly hat further down over her ears and heading towards Hegdehaugsveien. The thought of her cold, sparsely furnished flat held little appeal. She would not be able to sleep. Besides, she wanted another drink. She needed to lose herself.

  Friday night in the city of Oslo. She tightened her jacket around her and walked through the streets with her head down, lacking the energy to make eye contact with the people she passed, the normal world she would never be allowed to join. People who went to work Monday to Friday and partied at the weekend. She nodded briefly to the bouncer. The pub was busy, but the table in the far corner where she liked to hide was free. How very convenient. She ordered a Guinness and a Jägermeister and slid down on the red sofa. Everyone else was there with someone. She was in the corner alone. Apart from this world. Smiling faces with glasses in both hands, out with friends, with other people, while she sat alone in the corner, feeling a kind of responsibility for them all.

  Get a grip.

  Mia knocked back the Jägermeister, washed it down with a swig of her Guinness and shook her head.

  Are you feeling sorry for yourself?

  No, she really had to get her act together. This was not like her. She took out the notepad and pen from her bag and placed them on the table in front of her. Who was she? She was Mia Krüger, wasn’t she? Was she going to just sit here, wallowing in self-pity? Hell, no. There had to be limits. Mia opened her notepad, took the cap off the pen and found a blank page. The psychologist. It was his fault.

  I think your job is making you ill.

  Total bullshit. She regretted it now, agreeing to have therapy. Letting some idiot into her head, making her think that it was true, that she needed fixing. She had kept him at arm’s length, really she had. In every session. Said yes and no where she was supposed to, and yet he had got under her skin.

  The idea there was something wrong with her.

  Screw that. She made up her mind at that moment, helped along by the warmth of the alcohol, that they could think whatever the hell they liked. Mikkelson, Mattias Wang, even Munch; she knew exactly the kind of person she was, and she was just fine.

  They had undermined her. Tiny, whispering voices coming at her from all sides, but now she was drawing a line. She waved over the waiter and pointed to her empty shot glass, and soon afterwards another Jägermeister appeared on her table. What the hell did they know about what it was like to be her? More text messages from her therapist. Shall I make you another appointment? I think that would be a good idea. Munch’s eyes across the table. I think you need to rest.

  Tossers.

  Mia smiled to herself, drank a mouthful of Guinness and put pen to paper.

  Blank sheets.

  Important. Look at everything afresh.

  Strong. She felt strong again. Whether or not it was the alcohol talking made no difference right now. She emptied her Guinness, waved another round over to the table and ignored the commotion in the pub with a smile on her lips. Her pen flew across the paper.

  Camilla. The chosen one. Mother. Birth. Seventeen years old. Ditzy. Unconventional. Feathers. Owl? Death? Strangled. Why strangled? Why something around her neck? Breathing? Air. Breath is life? Her arms. In the forest? Why wasn’t she dressed?

  Mia knocked back a big swig of the dark beer without taking any notice of what was happening around her. She wrote ritual over her last notes and moved the pen to the opposite page of the notepad, wrote basement at the top, drained her shot glass quickly and put pen to paper again.

  Dark. Darkness. Animals? What is it about animals? Why are you an animal? Food. Animal feed. Why are you not allowed to eat, Camilla? Who is watching you? Why is he watching you? And why are you not wearing the wi
g when you are running on the wheel? When he is looking at you? Why is he looking at you? Because it is you without the wig? Why are you yourself in the basement? But not when you’re lying in the forest?

  Mia ordered another round, although she had yet to finish her Guinness. She emptied her glass, just in time for the next round to arrive, raised the small shot glass to her lips and leaned back slightly in the red sofa in order to glance at her notes.

  She was on to something.

  She was livid that she had allowed them to mess with her mind. She would never let it happen again.

  She was definitely on to something.

  Mia popped the pen in her mouth. One: as you lie before us, new, different. In the forest. On the feathers. Protected? New born? Two: when you’re an animal in the cage, when you run on the wheel, when you have to perform. Do you have to perform, Camilla? Do you have to show what you can do?

  Mia turned the page and let the pen race across the next blank sheet.

  Mother? Did you want to become a mother, Camilla? Did you want a child? The chosen one. Why were you the chosen one? Were you going to be the mother? Of the child?

  Mia became aware of someone standing by her table, the waiter probably, and tried to wave him away, she had plenty in her glasses, but the person refused to move.

  ‘Mia Krüger?’ the figure said, and though Mia would rather be left alone, she looked up reluctantly from her notes.

  ‘Yes?’

  A young man was standing in front of her. He wore a black suit and a freshly ironed white shirt but had a beanie pulled over his head.

  ‘I’m busy,’ Mia said.

  The young man took off the beanie and bushy hair appeared, black on both sides with a white stripe down the middle.

  Mia could feel her irritation build. She was on to something. The answer was somewhere on the papers in front of her.

  ‘I’m Skunk,’ the young man introduced himself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Skunk,’ the young man said again, smiling crookedly at her. ‘Are you still busy?’

  Chapter 49

  Sunniva Rød had worked the afternoon shift and was more exhausted than usual. She had slept badly, tossing and turning in her bed, dreaming bizarre dreams. She wondered what could have prompted them. Was it because he had stopped calling? At first he had rung her all the time, endless calls and lots of messages, then a complete stop. Nothing. Had something happened to Curry? Had he been in an accident? Perhaps she ought to ring round to check? She let out a sigh and entered the last room she needed to check before she could finish for the day. Torvald Sund, the mad vicar. She would usually pause outside his door, bracing herself before going inside, but she was too tired today; she did not have the energy. She just wanted to go home and get some sleep.

  She entered the room and was a little startled when she saw him sitting up, eyes wide open and a smile playing on his lips. As if he had been waiting for her to arrive.

  ‘I’m going to die soon,’ the vicar announced.

  ‘Don’t talk like that, Torvald,’ Sunniva said, walking over to his bedside table to clear away the lunch that her colleagues had brought him but which he had not touched.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry? Don’t you want something to eat?’ Sunniva said.

  ‘I won’t need food in Heaven,’ the vicar continued to smile, still not taking his eyes off her. He made her feel uneasy.

  ‘Don’t say such things,’ Sunniva said. ‘You have many good days left.’

  ‘I’m going to die soon,’ the vicar said again, more insistent this time. ‘But I don’t mind because I will get into Heaven after all. God has told me that I can atone for my sins.’

  Sunniva began to clear away the food.

  I won’t go to Heaven.

  I have sinned.

  Why hadn’t Curry called? Had something happened?

  She picked up the tray from the bedside table and made to leave.

  ‘No, listen to me,’ the vicar insisted.

  Sunniva’s gaze was imploring now. She was so tired.

  ‘I have to clear this away, Torvald,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘And then my shift is over. But the others will be here soon, so it’s going to be OK.’

  ‘No,’ the old man said loudly, raising a crooked finger. ‘It has to be you.’

  Sunniva was startled, and she stopped in the middle of the floor with the tray in her hands.

  The mad vicar.

  No. She just wanted to go home.

  ‘Please,’ he said in a feeble voice as she reached the door. ‘I didn’t mean to shout, God forgive me, but this is the way it must happen. You’re the messenger.’

  Sunniva turned and looked at him. He was staring at her, pleading. He had folded his hands.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Listen to what?’ Sunniva sighed.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ the old man said, when he saw Sunniva put down the tray on the table by the door and come back to his bedside. ‘We both thank you, God and I. The messenger.’

  He raised his hands towards the heavens and murmured something.

  ‘Why am I the messenger, Torvald?’ Sunniva said. ‘And what’s the message? And who is it for?’

  The vicar smiled at her again. ‘At first it made no sense to me, but then I found out who you are.’

  ‘Who I am? But you know who I am, Torvald. We’ve known each other for ages.’

  ‘Oh, no, no,’ the old man said with a light cough. ‘Not until I heard the other nurses talk.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know, they whisper and gossip when they change my bed. They don’t think Torvald has ears, they think he’s not even human, just someone waiting to die: no, he won’t know that we’re talking about Sunniva.’

  ‘What?’ Sunniva was confused. ‘What do they say about me?’

  Suddenly she was intrigued by what the old man had to say.

  ‘And that was when I realized that you were the messenger,’ the old man said happily, then he looked as if he had been distracted by something.

  ‘What do they say about me?’ Sunniva said, bringing him back.

  ‘Oh, nothing to worry about. Only that you and the policeman are no longer getting married. That he drinks and gambles away your money.’

  ‘What the f—’ Sunniva burst out, but stopped herself. She worked in the one place in Norway where swearing could lead to dismissal.

  ‘How dare they—’

  ‘Hush, hush, my friend, it’s all for the best.’

  ‘How can that be …?’

  ‘So it’s true? He’s a police officer?’

  ‘Yes, sort of.’ Sunniva nodded.

  ‘Oh, God, thank you. Now I will go to Heaven.’ The old man smiled, and clapped his wrinkly hands.

  ‘Torvald, I don’t know if—’ Sunniva sighed, but he interrupted her.

  ‘A great sin can only be redeemed through a great good deed.’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘So says the Scripture, and that is the word of God,’ the vicar went on, taking no notice of her.

  Sunniva had a feeling he was heading into madness again, and yet there was something in his eyes that told her that today was different. She had never seen him this alert before.

  ‘So I’m the messenger,’ she said. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  ‘You’ve seen the papers?’ the old man said, still lucid.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The sacrificial lamb in the circle of sin?’

  Sunniva had to think hard before she realized what he was referring to. The young girl found murdered in the forest on the far side of Hurumlandet. The papers had written about little else recently. Naked. Strangled. In some kind of ritual. Even thinking about it sent shivers down her spine.

  ‘What about her?’ Sunniva said, still intrigued.

  ‘I know who it was.’

  ‘Who the girl was?’

  ‘No,’ he said, exasperated at her inability to
follow his train of thought.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘God’s will.’ The vicar nodded, content again.

  ‘Torvald, what are you talking about?’ Sunniva said.

  The old man folded his hands across his chest and closed his eyes for a moment as if he were having a conversation with someone inside his head; then he opened them again and looked right at her.

  ‘I know who killed her.’

  Chapter 50

  The man who had sat down at her table had intelligent eyes; he seemed calm and self-assured, yet Mia Krüger was not sure what to make of him. He wore a white shirt and a black suit that made him look like a businessman, but his crazy hair, black on the sides with a broad, white stripe down the middle, seemed to contradict the look. She saw how he had earned his nickname, Skunk.

  Normally, she was good at this, reading people, but this young man exuded something she had never come across before. He was dressed up for the occasion like an actor. As if he wanted to be special and had put on these clothes in order to stand out from the crowd. She soon realized how wrong she was.

  He could not have cared less about his appearance. He could look any way he wanted to, because he did not care what other people thought. He was himself, and if anyone had a problem with that, well, they could go to hell. Skunk raised the beer glass to his lips and smiled at her across the rim. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but for the first time in as long as Mia could remember, she had a feeling that here was a man she might actually, yes …

  She did not finish the thought but emptied her own beer, put on her police face again and put the notebook and pen to one side.

  ‘So you’re not busy?’

  He might be a bit cocky, but Mia did not mind.

  ‘I am, actually,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t usually do this,’ Skunk said, taking his eyes off her for the first time, and staring out of the window.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Talk to the police,’ he smiled, looking at her again.

  ‘No, we get that,’ Mia said. ‘Gabriel made it quite clear.’

  ‘Gabriel, yes.’ Skunk sighed, raising his glass again. ‘He went over to the dark side …’

  ‘According to him, you’re the one who went over to the dark side,’ she said as the waiter placed fresh drinks on the white tablecloth between them.