by Samuel Bjork
Shit.
He had put a rope around her neck.
Strangled and posed in a pentagram of candles.
Mia edged her way closer. It was now or never; he would kill Miriam unless she did something. She raised the Glock up to her eye again but was still unable to see what she was aiming at.
Then, suddenly, there was a noise from the sky. The young man instinctively looked up at the clouds, a stunned expression on his face.
A chopping sound.
A helicopter.
So they had got her message after all.
They had found her.
But then.
Mia Krüger would play this movie back in her head every night in the weeks that followed.
Sweat on her pillow.
Waking with a scream.
Slow motion.
The feather-clad young man gazing in wonder at the sky, at the noise that drowned out the quiet forest. Distracted, his hands fell to his sides.
Miriam kneeling there.
Naked.
A helicopter.
The sound of rescue.
The sound of freedom.
And then she started running.
Mia raised her Glock and leapt out into the clearing.
No, no.
‘Miriam!’
The man startled at the sudden change – the helicopter in the sky, Mia charging at him, her gun suddenly appearing in his hands, the Glock he had taken from her – trying to take it all in.
‘Miriam!’
The film continued.
Hands tied, naked legs running, towards the sound of freedom, towards the edge of the precipice.
No, Miriam, no!
She could see the helicopter now. The young man aimed the gun at Mia, but she took no notice of the bullets slamming around her feet. She discovered a strength she did not know she possessed.
‘Miriam!’
Mia raised the gun up to her right eye as she ran into the clearing. She heard the sound of the rotor blades as the mechanical animal hovered at the edge of the void.
And then she was gone.
Miriam did not even feel it.
Over the edge.
The feather-clad young man. Eyes that did not understand what was happening, as Mia finally found him in her sights and emptied the magazine into him.
‘Miriam!’
White fingers letting go of the gun he was holding as he slumped to his knees on to the cold ground.
She could not see Munch’s eyes, but she could sense them, the white in them, as he watched his naked daughter fall through the air.
Mia saw her last three shots find their target.
An expression in his eyes she could not quite place.
Skin behind quivering feathers.
And then he was gone.
She was barely conscious when she reached the edge of the precipice and saw the twisted, white, naked body at the bottom.
Miriam.
Mia sank to her knees, about to pass out. The gun slipped from her hands.
No.
Please.
The sound of the helicopter faded away.
And then.
Miriam.
She was no longer there.
NINE
Chapter 80
The snow came almost as if the church bells had announced it. It was the twenty-second of December, and the newspapers had written about little else for days. No white Christmas this year? But then it came, big, light flakes falling in time with the heavy toll of the funeral bells in Gamle Aker church. A funeral so near to Christmas. Mia Krüger could hardly have felt worse as she tightened her jacket around her and hurried between the gravestones towards the big church door.
They were all here. Kim. Curry. Mikkelson. Anette. Ludvig Grønlie. Dark suits. Dark coats. Dark faces. Bowed heads, small nods. She could not see Munch anywhere. He must be inside already. After all, he had been closest. He had arranged everything. The coffin. The flowers. RIP. A last farewell from friends and colleagues. Mia had not spoken to Munch for almost two months, but she presumed that he had made the arrangements, and as the rusty red church door opened and the mourners slowly started filing into the church, she had it confirmed. She could see his back at the front, his head bowed, right next to the white coffin covered in flowers.
The ceremony was simple, but moving. Mia had never been religious. She could not understand why anyone might need to believe in anything outside themselves, why they would come together in an old building, sit on uncomfortable seats, while a vicar spoke about how God took care of his own and welcomed everyone to His Kingdom, yet, during the short ceremony, she could not help but be moved by the beauty of the ritual. United in grief. A last farewell.
Organ music. A few words from the vicar. A eulogy from Munch, who seemed upset but looked better than she had feared.
It could have been so much worse.
She caught herself thinking this as the coffin was carried out of the church. Six men as pallbearers, Munch and Mikkelson among them.
It could have been Miriam.
She felt a little heartless as the coffin was lowered into the ground. A small gathering, mostly old colleagues, the odd face she did not recognize, but not many; he had been like that, Per Lindkvist: it was the life he had chosen. Investigator first, human being second. Seventy-five years; almost like a father to Munch. A good police officer who had sacrificed everything for the job and had found it hard to adjust to retirement, but at least he had lived the life he wanted.
It could have been much worse.
Handshakes and nods as the crowd slowly dispersed. There would be a reception later, beers and some singing at Justisen, like Lindkvist would have wanted, but Mia did not have the energy to join in.
She had known him, but not well.
A legendary police officer.
A good friend to older members of the unit.
But she was not up to it. She just wanted to go home. It was three days before Christmas. She would try to survive, try to get through it. She was here to pay her respects, but she had an ulterior motive.
Talk to Holger.
Her boss had asked for privacy after what had happened to Miriam two months earlier, and Mia, along with everyone else, had obviously respected that.
She stepped aside and did not go up to him until he was standing alone under a snow-covered tree near the coffin they had just accompanied to its final resting place.
‘Hello, Holger,’ she said cautiously, keeping her distance, a physical gesture as if to ask whether it would be OK if they had a few words.
‘Hello, Mia.’ Munch smiled, a little wearily, nodding to indicate that her presence was welcome.
‘How are things?’ The words coming out of her mouth felt strange, but she did not know what else to say.
‘Better.’
‘And Miriam?’ Mia ventured tentatively.
Munch disappeared for a moment, heavy lids above red skin.
‘She’ll make it, but they can’t say much else.’
‘About what?’
Munch thought about it before he opened his mouth again.
‘She can’t walk yet, and they don’t know if she ever will. But she has started to speak, a few words. And she recognized me yesterday.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Mia said, not sure if it was the right thing to say.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
A period of silence followed. Delicate snowflakes fell around them.
‘We’ve been working with Interpol, and they have caught all five of them,’ Mia said. ‘Everyone who bought access to the live feed. One French national. One wealthy Swiss. It ended up being a high-profile case. I don’t know if you saw it – it was on CNN, prime-time in the USA. We caught everyone involved.’
‘Did you now? Well, that’s good,’ Munch said, without appearing to have heard her.
‘And Simonsen, the billionaire,’ Mia went on, not sure if she should. ‘I interviewed him, too. The old case from San
defjord. When they sent the children – Helene Eriksen and her brother – to Australia. It turned out the vicar was telling the truth. Their mother seems to have been ill – mental-health issues. It was she who persuaded Simonsen to send the children away; she only wanted him for his money, you see. She died in an accident, and I’ve checked with Sandefjord police, but they didn’t have much about it, other than …’
Munch was not looking at her now. He let the cigarette burn between his fingers without smoking it, his gaze turned only inwards.
‘Well, according to Simonsen, when he found out that the children weren’t safe, that they had been sent to live with this sect, then he helped them with money. The Nurseries for her, a shop for him, so – well, at least the two of them were telling the truth …’
Munch looked down between his fingers and saw that the cigarette had burned itself out. He threw it away, fumbled in his duffel-coat pocket and placed a new cigarette between his lips.
‘We won’t know for a long time,’ Munch said. ‘But Marianne and I are hoping for the best. That’s all we can do.’
He was smiling at her now, with eyes that were not quite present.
‘If she can walk again?’
‘I have faith. That’s important, don’t you think?’ Munch turned to her. ‘Thinking positively, I mean?’
‘Of course.’ Mia nodded, feeling queasy now.
‘I have faith,’ Munch said again.
‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ Mia said, tightening her jacket around her. ‘And give her my love. Tell her that I’ll be happy to visit.’
It took a few seconds. The lighter approached the tip of the cigarette without them meeting. Big fingers hanging in the air.
‘I will. That’s kind, Mia. Thank you for coming.’
She felt in need of a hug, but there was only a clumsy handshake for goodbye. In any case, he was no longer here. Mia pulled her hat down over her ears, tightened her jacket even more and ignored the looks she got on her way to the church gate. She had no intention of staying here a moment longer. She found the road leading to Bislett as the snow started to fall more densely.
Three days until Christmas. She had promised herself to try, but now she did not know if she could manage it. Christmas Eve. In a cold flat. Alone. Yet again. But she could not disappear. Miriam was in a bed up at Ullevål Hospital. Unable to move. Barely able to speak. She could not do that to Munch. Kill herself. Not now.
Mia crossed the street, shielding her face against the snow falling heavily now: a white Oslo, a Christmas everyone would love. With heavy footsteps, she walked down Sofiesgate and found the keys in her pocket.
Mia barely noticed her, the woman in the red puffa jacket on her doorstep, looking as if she had been standing there for a long time, just waiting for Mia to turn up, eager hands attaching something to the door handle, before she disappeared down the steps.
And was lost in the snow.
About the Author
Samuel Bjork is the pen name of Norwegian novelist, playwright and singer/songwriter Frode Sander Øien. The Owl Always Hunts at Night is the second in his Munch and Krüger series, I’m Travelling Alone was the first. Both have been bestsellers across Scandinavia and the rest of Europe.
Also by Samuel Bjork
I’m Travelling Alone
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Originally published in Norway as Uglen
Published by agreement with Ahlander Agency
Copyright © Samuel Bjork 2016
English translation copyright © Charlotte Barslund 2016
Cover photographs: forest © Getty Images; feather © Shutterstock. Design by R. Shailer/TW
Samuel Bjork has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473508644
ISBNs 9780857522528 (hb)
9780857522535 (tpb)
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