by Samuel Bjork
Markus Skog.
Sigrid had been eighteen, the scrawny idiot twenty-two. He had moved to Oslo, where he had started hanging out at Plata. A few months later, Sigrid had joined him.
Four weeks in rehab. It was not the first time Mia had picked up her sister from a rehab centre, but this time had been different. Sigrid’s motivation had been completely different. Not the usual junkie smile after such a stay, lies and more lies, just itching to get out and shoot up again – no, there had been something in her eyes. She had seemed more determined, almost back to her old self.
Mia had thought so much about her sister over the years that it had almost driven her insane. Why Sigrid? Was it boredom? Because their parents had died? Or just because of some skinny, scrawny idiot? Had it been love?
Their mother could be strict, but she was never particularly harsh. Their father had spoiled them, but surely that could do no harm? Eva and Kyrre Krüger had adopted the twins right after their birth. They had made arrangements with their biological mother in advance; she was young, single, desperate. Did not want to, and could not cope with, looking after two children. For a childless couple, they were a gift from heaven; the girls were exactly what they had always wanted, their happiness was complete.
Their mother, Eva, taught at Åsgården Primary School. Their father, Kyrre, sold paint and owned the shop Ole Krüger’s Successor in the centre of Horten.
Mia had searched high and low for an explanation, anything which could tell her why Sigrid had ended up a junkie, but she had never found one.
Markus Skog.
It was his fault.
It was just one week after leaving rehab. They had got on so well in her flat in Vogtsgate. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. The two peas were back in their pod. Mia had even taken a couple of days off work, for the first time in God knows how long. Then, one evening, she found a note on the kitchen table:
Have to talk to M.
Back soon. S.
Mia Krüger got up from the edge of the jetty and padded back to the house. She was already starting to sway. It was time for some more pills. And another drink.
Chapter 5
Holger Munch was fed up with driving and decided to take a break. He spotted a lay-by, pulled over and got out to stretch his legs. He did not have much further to go – he was only a few kilometres from the Hitra Tunnel – but he was in no hurry. The man who would be taking him to the island in his boat could not do it until after two o’clock, for some reason; Holger Munch had not had the energy to ask why. He had spoken to the local police officer, who did not seem particularly bright. Not that he was prejudiced against regional police officers, but Holger had been used to another pace in Oslo. Not these days, for obvious reasons: you would be hard pressed to claim that the pace at Ringerike Police was fast moving. Munch swore softly under his breath and cursed Mikkelson, but regretted it immediately. It was not Mikkelson’s fault. There had been an investigation afterwards and there had to be some repercussions – he knew that only too well – but surely there were limits.
Munch took a seat on a bench and lit a cigarette. Spring had come early to Trøndelag this year. There were green leaves on the trees in several places and the snow had almost melted away. Not that he knew very much about when spring usually came to Trøndelag, but he had heard them talk about it on the local radio. He had taken a break from the music to listen to the news. He wondered if they had managed to keep it out of the media, or if some idiot down at Police Headquarters had leaked the discovery to a news-hungry journalist with deep pockets, but, fortunately, there was nothing. Nothing about the little girl who had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen.
His mobile had been ringing and beeping all the time he had been in the car, but Holger had ignored it. He did not want to make calls or send text messages while driving. He had attended too many accidents where people had gone off the road or crashed into someone due to just one second of distraction. Besides, none of it was urgent. And he savoured this brief moment of freedom. He hated to admit it to himself, but at times it got to him. The work. And family life. He didn’t mind visiting his mother in the care home. He didn’t mind helping his daughter with the preparations for her wedding. And he certainly never minded the hours he spent with Marion, his granddaughter, who had just turned six, but even so, yes, at times it all got too much for him.
He and Marianne. He had never imagined anything else. Even now, ten years after the divorce, he still had the feeling that something inside him was so broken that it could never be fixed.
He shuddered and checked his mobile. Another two unanswered calls from Mikkelson; he knew what they would be about. There was no reason to call back. Another message from Miriam, his daughter; brief and impersonal, as usual. Some calls from Marianne, his ex-wife. Bugger, he had forgotten to call the care home. After all, today was a Wednesday. He should really have done it before he started driving. He found the number, got up and straightened his legs.
‘Høvikveien Care Home, Karen speaking.’
‘Yes, hello, Karen. It’s Holger Munch.’
‘Hi, Holger. How are you?’ The soft voice at the other end almost made Munch blush; he had expected one of the older carers to answer the phone, they usually did.
Wow, Holger, new jumper? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Munch replied. ‘But I’m afraid I’m about to ask you to do me yet another favour.’
‘Go on, then, ask away, Holger.’ The woman on the telephone laughed.
They had had a nodding acquaintance for some years. Karen was one of the carers at the home, where his mother had initially refused to live, but where now she appeared to have settled down.
‘It’s Wednesday again.’ Munch heaved a sigh.
‘And you won’t be able to make it?’
‘No, sadly not,’ he replied. ‘I’m out of town.’
‘I understand,’ Karen said, chuckling. ‘I’ll see if somebody here can give her a lift. If not, I’ll order her a cab.’
‘I’ll pay for it, of course,’ Munch quickly interjected.
‘No problem.’
‘Thank you, Karen.’
‘Don’t mention it, Holger. You’ll manage next Wednesday, I expect?’
‘Oh, I will.’
‘Great. Perhaps we’ll see each other then?’
‘That’s very likely.’ Munch coughed. ‘Thank you so much and, well, give her my best.’
‘Will do.’
Munch ended the call and returned to the bench.
Why don’t you ask her out? Where’s the harm? A cup of coffee? A trip to the cinema?
He dismissed the idea just as an email pinged to announce its arrival on his mobile. He had been dead against having one, these new-fangled mobiles where everything was gathered in one place – how would he ever get a moment’s peace? Still, right now it suited him just fine. He smiled as he opened the email and read another challenge from Juri, a Russian he had met on the Net some years ago. Nerds the world over gathered on Math2.org’s message board. Juri was a sixty-something-year-old professor from Minsk. Munch would not go so far as calling him a friend – after all, they had never met in real life – but they had exchanged email addresses and were in contact from time to time. They discussed chess and, every now and then, they would challenge each other with brainteasers, as was the case now.
Water flows into a tank. The volume of water doubles every minute. The tank is full in one hour. How long does it take for the tank to be half full? J.
Munch lit another cigarette and pondered the question for a while before he found the answer. Ha-ha. He liked Juri. He had even considered going to visit him one day – why not? He had never been to Russia – why not meet up with people you had got to know on the Internet? He had made several acquaintances in this way, mrmichigan40 from the US, margrete_08 from Sweden, Birrrdman from South Africa. Chess and mathematics nerds but, more im
portantly, people like him, so yes – why not? Organize a trip, make new friends – surely that would be all right? He wasn’t that old, was he? And when was the last time he travelled anywhere? He caught a glimpse of his own reflection on the screen of his mobile and put it down on the bench next to him.
Fifty-four. He didn’t think that number could be quite right. He felt much older. He had aged ten years the day Marianne had told him about the teacher from Hurum. He had tried to stay calm. He should have seen it coming. His long days at work and his general absent-mindedness. Away with the fairies, even on the rare occasions he was at home. Ultimately, there would be a price to pay, he’d known, but now, and like this? She had been completely relaxed, as if she had rehearsed her speech several times. They had met on a course. Stayed in touch ever since. They had developed feelings for one another. They had met a few times, in secret, but she no longer wanted to live a dishonest life. In the end, he had failed to keep his cool. He, who had never raised a hand to anyone. He had howled and hurled his dinner plate at the wall. Shouted and chased her around the house. He was still ashamed of his behaviour. Miriam had come running down from her room, crying. Fifteen years old then, now twenty-five and about to get married. Fifteen years, and taking her mother’s side. Not surprising, really. How much time had he ever spent at home being available to them during all those years?
He felt reluctant to reply to Miriam’s message: it was so short and cold, symbolic of how their relationship was and had been, it only piled on the pressure – as if the folder lying in the hire car were not enough.
Could you add a few thousand extra? We have decided to invite cousins. M.
The wedding. No problem, he texted, and added a smiley face, but deleted it. He saw the message go out and thought about his granddaughter, Marion. Miriam had told him to his face soon after Marion’s birth that she was not at all certain that he deserved to have any contact with the baby. Fortunately, she had changed her mind. Now, these were his most treasured moments. His hours with lovely, totally straightforward Marion, a bright light in his daily life, which, to be completely honest, had been fairly dark since his transfer back to Hønefoss.
He had let Marianne keep the house after the divorce. It had seemed like the right thing to do. Otherwise, Miriam would have had to move away from her friends and her school and her handball. He had bought a small flat in Bislett, suitably near to them and suitably far from his work. He had kept the flat after his transfer and was now renting a studio flat in Ringveien, not far from Hønefoss Police Station. His belongings were still in cardboard boxes. He had not taken very much – he had expected a quick return to the capital once the public outcry had died down – but now, almost two years later, he was still there, and he had yet to unpack, as neither place felt like home.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are people much worse off than you.
Munch stubbed out the cigarette and thought about the file in his car. A six-year-old girl had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random dog-walker. He had not come across a case like this for a long time. No wonder they were sweating down at Grønland.
He picked up his mobile and replied to Juri’s email.
59 minutes HM
Munch was loath to admit it to himself, but the file on the passenger seat sent shivers down his spine. He started the car, pulled out on to the main road and continued his journey east to Hitra.
Chapter 6
The man with the eagle tattoo on his neck had put on a roll-neck jumper for the occasion. He used to really like Oslo Central Station – the crowds made it the perfect place for a man of his profession – but these days there were so many cameras that practically nowhere was safe. He had started arranging his meetings and transactions at other venues long ago, at cinemas and kebabs shops, places where you were less likely to be identified, should your business lead to a major investigation. It rarely did – he did not operate on such a large scale any more – but still, better safe than sorry.
The man with the eagle tattoo pulled the beanie deep down over his head and entered the station concourse. He had not chosen the venue, but the amount offered was so high that he was happy to obey orders. He had no idea how the client had found him, but one day he had received an MMS with a photo, an assignment and a sum of money. And he had done what he always did, replied ‘OK’ without asking any questions. It was a strange assignment, no doubt about it, he had never done anything like it, but over the years he had learned never to probe, just to do the job and collect the money. It was what you needed to do in order to survive and retain your credibility out there in the shadowy world. Though the number of assignments was falling, as was how much he was paid, every now and again something big would fall into his lap. Like this one. A bizarre request – yes, quite extraordinary in fact – but well paid, and that was exactly what he was about to do now, pick up his pay cheque.
Suit jacket, smart trousers, shiny shoes, business briefcase, roll-neck jumper. Even a pair of fake spectacles. The man with the eagle tattoo looked like the exact opposite of what he was, and that was precisely the intention. In his profession, you never knew when the police might order a complete review of all CCTV recordings, so it was best to blend in. He looked like an accountant or any other kind of businessman and, though you might not think so, the man with the eagle tattoo was rather vain. You would never mistake him for a well-groomed, privileged member of the elite; he liked his rough appearance, his tattoos and the leather jacket. These revolting trousers rubbed his groin, and he felt like a prat in the tight jacket and the stupid shiny brown shoes. Never mind, just grin and bear it. The money that was waiting for him in one of the deposit boxes made it worth it. Totally worth it. He had been skint for a while and needed the cash. He was going to party now. He smiled faintly under the unfamiliar glasses and walked calmly, but vigilantly, through the station building.
The first message had arrived about a year ago, and more had followed. An MMS with a photograph and an amount. The first time, he had taken it to be some kind of joke, the request had been so unusual and bizarre, but he had carried it out nevertheless. And been paid. As he was the next time. And the time after that. Then he had stopped caring what it was about.
He stopped at the Narvesen kiosk and bought a newspaper and a packet of cigarettes. A completely ordinary man commuting home after a day at the office. Nothing unusual about this accountant. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and continued down towards the deposit boxes. Stopped outside the entrance to the boxes and sent the text message.
I’m here.
He waited only a short while for the reply. As usual, it came promptly. The number of the safety-deposit box and the code to open it beeped as it whizzed into his mobile. He glanced around a few times before he walked along the deposit boxes to find the right one. He would have to grant Oslo Central Station at least one thing: the days of keys changing hands in backstreets and alleyways were over. Now all you needed was a code. The man with the eagle tattoo entered the digits on the keypad and heard a click as the box opened. As usual, the familiar brown envelope was lying inside it. He removed the envelope from the box and tried not to look around, drawing as little attention to himself as possible, in view of all the cameras present, before he opened the briefcase and deftly slipped the envelope inside it. There was a smile at the corner of his mouth as he gauged that it was much fatter this time. His final assignment. Time to settle his accounts. He left the safety-deposit boxes, walked up the steps, continued through the station, entered a Burger King and locked himself in a cubicle in the Gents. He opened the briefcase and took out the envelope; he could hardly contain himself. He grinned from ear to ear when he saw the contents. There was more than just the agreed sum of money, in 200 kroner notes as he always requested; there was also a small bag of white powder. The man with the eagle tattoo opened the transparent plastic bag, carefully tasted the contents, and the smile on his face broadened even further. He had no idea who his client was, but
there was clearly nothing wrong with his contacts or his information. Those who knew him well were also aware of his great love for this substance.
He took out his mobile and sent his usual reply.
OK. Thanks.
He did not normally say thank you – this was pure business, nothing personal – but he could not help it this time, what with the bonus and all. It took a few seconds before the reply came.
Have fun.
The man with the eagle tattoo smiled as he returned the envelope and the bag to the briefcase and made his way back to the station concourse.
Chapter 7
Mia Krüger was sitting on a rock with her white knitted pom-pom beanie pulled down over her long, raven-black hair and a blanket wrapped around her. It was noon. At the chemist, she had overheard someone saying that spring had come early to Trøndelag this year, but she was still cold and had not felt much of this alleged warmth.
Six days left now. Six blank squares on the calendar in the kitchen, and she could feel that she was looking forward to it.
Death isn’t dangerous.
During these last few days she had grown even more convinced of this truth. The knowledge that she would soon be set free. She found some pills in the pocket of her anorak and washed them down with a bottle of alcohol she had brought outside with her. Mia smiled to herself and looked across the sea. A fishing boat glided past in the horizon. The April sun dyed the clouds golden and the water below the rocks shimmered. She had thought a great deal in the last few days. About her loved ones or, rather, the people who had been her loved ones. She was the only one left, and she was not planning on being around for long either. In this world. In this reality, as her grandmother used to say. Mia smiled and took a swig from the bottle.