by Samuel Bjork
‘So when do you trick your mum?’
‘When I say that I’ve cleaned my teeth.’
‘But you haven’t cleaned them?’
‘Yes, but not very well.’
‘So when I ask you, did you brush your teeth properly, then you haven’t?’
‘No.’ The little girl giggled again.
‘So how did you clean them?’
‘Quite well, sort of.’
Miriam smiled again and stroked her daughter’s blonde hair.
‘I think you’ll need a haircut soon.’
‘You mean go to the hairdresser’s?’
Miriam nodded.
‘Oh, yes, please! Can we do that tomorrow?’
‘No, not tomorrow. When we get home.’
‘When will we get home?’
Her daughter looked at her with almost pleading eyes.
‘I don’t know, sweetheart. When Grandad says we can.’
‘Will we get a new house when we get home?’
Miriam looked quizzically at her daughter. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, move that bus!’
‘Move that bus? What on earth are you talking about, Marion?’
‘Oh, you know. When people on TV have a bad house and then they have to go away while someone builds them a new house, and then they come back, and then there is a bus parked outside and everyone shouts, ìMove that bus!î And then there’s a lovely new house behind it and everybody starts to cheer and cry. I want a room that’s all pink with a princess bed. Can I have that?’
‘A princess bed?’
‘Aha?’
‘We’ll have to wait and see. When did you watch that?’
‘With Grandad.’
‘You and Grandad watched Extreme Makeover?’
‘Oh, I don’t know what it was called, Mum.’
Miriam had made it very clear which television programmes were permitted when her father had Marion to stay, but it had clearly fallen on deaf ears. Did her father really watch that kind of television? She found it hard to imagine.
‘What other programmes do you and Grandad watch?’
‘Oh, I’m not supposed to tell you that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Drinking Coke and watching television is our little secret, you understand that, Mummy. Mine and Grandad’s. And you’re not supposed to share a secret, that’s what the law says.’
‘Quite so, no, you’re not supposed to tell anyone.’
Marion rubbed her face against her mother’s neck and closed her eyes. Her thumb was inching its way towards her mouth, but she stopped herself and returned it to her tummy. Good girl. They had spent ages trying to make her stop sucking her thumb. It hadn’t been easy. But now it looked like she was succeeding. Miriam tucked the blanket close around her daughter and held her tight.
‘Mum?’
‘I thought you were falling asleep?’
‘I can’t fall asleep when I’m talking,’ Marion said, precocious once more.
‘No, obviously not.’ Miriam laughed.
It was a mistake, no doubt about it. Laughing. Reacting would merely encourage her, but Miriam couldn’t help it. To be quite honest, she liked her daughter being awake. The flat was silent and empty when she slept.
‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘Why isn’t Daddy here?’
Miriam didn’t quite know what to say. For security reasons, Johannes did not know where they were. If the killer was capable of hanging little girls from trees, he or she would also be able to extract from him where they were hiding. She thought of her fiancé and felt warm all over. Her father had been adamant: the wedding must be cancelled and, even though she had argued her hardest, she had complied at the end. Her feelings said no, but her common sense knew better. They couldn’t fill a church with family and friends right now. It would be irresponsible. No one would benefit. Not now that Marion was number five.
Tick-tock, little Marion is number five.
Her father had been incredibly angry with Mia, but Miriam was grateful for knowing. Better to know what they were talking about than live in ignorance.
‘Why don’t you say something, Mum?’
‘Daddy is at work, but he loves you very much, he told me to tell you that.’
‘Did you speak to him on the phone?’
‘Yes, just now.’
‘Oh, why didn’t I get to talk to him?’
‘Because you were asleep.’
‘But I wasn’t asleep.’
‘I thought you were.’
‘That’s not the same thing, Mum. Next time you have to check, you really must, this won’t do.’
Miriam smiled again.
‘I will, sweetheart. I will.’
‘Good,’ Marion said.
The little girl threw aside the blanket and got up.
‘I think I’m ready to go to bed now.’
‘That sounds good, Marion. Would you like me to walk you upstairs?’
‘I’m not a baby any more.’ Marion yawned. ‘I know perfectly well where it is.’
Miriam smiled.
‘Clever girl. Give your mum a good-night hug then.’
The little girl bent down and gave her mother a long hug.
‘Remember that my room must be pink with a princess bed. “Move that bus!”’
‘I’ll let them know.’ Miriam smiled again and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek.
‘Night night.’
‘Night night.’
Her daughter skipped across the floor in her nightdress, and up the stairs. Miriam got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. She heard her mobile beep and ran back to check who it was.
Sorry, Miriam, but we have to move you again tonight. Something has happened, will explain later. Am sending someone to fetch you now. OK? M.
Damn, now? Marion had only just gone back to bed. Oh, well. Her daughter was still light enough to be carried. Something had happened. What could it be? She replied:
OKJ<
She went out into the hallway and found the suitcase. She hadn’t packed much. A few changes of clothing for both of them. Toiletries. The bare essentials. It took only ten minutes to pack everything. She took the mug of tea with her from the kitchen and sat down on the sofa again. She wondered where they were going this time. The first flat had been small, no television, just one room, something which had driven her a little crazy, claustrophobic. This one was much bigger and furnished luxuriously. She believed it was used for visiting VIPs who didn’t want to be seen. Very anonymous. Perfect for keeping nosy journalists at bay. Like her. Was that why she had dropped out of journalism college? Because being a journalist wasn’t good enough? Because she would rather do something more useful? Help people? No, that wasn’t it. There was nothing wrong with being a journalist; she didn’t know where that idea had come from. There were different kinds of journalists, just as there were different kinds of teachers and police officers. Some journalists wrote about celebrities. Others uncovered injustices. That was the kind of journalist Miriam had wanted to be. To fight for something. Use her brains to enlighten people, rather than dull their minds with lists of who was best dressed and what celebrities ate for Christmas.
She had just finished her tea when the doorbell rang. Miriam jumped up and pressed the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, are you ready?’
‘I’m ready. Just come up.’
She pressed the buzzer and put on her shoes. Went to the suitcase in the hallway and put on her jacket. She hoped that Marion wouldn’t wake up during the car journey. She would be crotchety and perhaps wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep again.
There was a soft knock on the door. No door bell. What a considerate police officer, Miriam thought, aware that a child is asleep here. She went to open the door. There was someone outside. Wearing a kind of mask. And a wig. She had no time to react. The figure pressed a cloth into her face. She heard the words:
‘Night night.’
And she was out cold
Chapter 62
Mia Krüger was sitting at a table by the window in Kaffebrenneriet, trying to force herself to wake up. She had passed out on the bed in her hotel bedroom, having set the alarm first, as she felt too guilty to allow herself more than a few hours’ sleep, but her body disagreed; it wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, crawl under the duvet, carry on dreaming.
She strangled a yawn and called Kim Kolsø.
‘Yes? Kim speaking.’
‘Did we get anything from the care-home staff?’
‘No.’ He sighed. ‘No one knew her very well. Malin Stoltz would appear to have kept herself mostly to herself.’
‘Are you still up there?’
‘No, we’re coming back to town now. We need to contact any members of staff who weren’t at work today. See if we can get anything from them.’
‘Keep me informed, will you?’
‘Will do.’
Mia strangled another yawn and went up to order another coffee. It was the only way she could jumpstart herself. Coffee. And plenty of it. To get her head in gear again. Her body going. She had dreamt about a maze of mirrors and been unable to find her way out; she had felt utterly confused and trapped, and the feeling still weighed her down. She ordered a double espresso and was about to carry it back to her seat by the window when she noticed two women absorbed in an intimate, but rather loud, conversation at a table close to the counter.
She could not avoid overhearing what they were talking about.
‘So we tried everything, but it didn’t work,’ one of them said.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Was it you or your husband who couldn’t have them?’ the other one said.
‘They never found out,’ the first woman said.
‘How awful for you,’ the second woman said.
‘Yes, if it hadn’t been for the support group, I would never have got over it. As for him, well, he just refused to talk about it,’ the first woman said.
‘Have you thought about adoption?’ the second woman said.
‘I really want to, but he, well, I don’t think that he does. I can’t make him talk about that either.’
‘How stupid. Surely helping a child with no parents benefits everyone? It’s a win-win.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly what I said, but he …’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mia said, walking up to them. ‘I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.’
The two women stared at her.
‘A support group?’ Mia asked. ‘What kind of support group were you talking about?’
The first woman looked a little offended, but she replied nevertheless.
‘A support group for women who can’t have children. Why do you want to know?’
‘I have a friend …’ Mia began, but changed her mind. ‘I … I can’t have children, sadly.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the first woman said, her attitude changing. she was no longer offended: Mia was a fellow club member; they were playing for the same team.
‘Was that here in Oslo?’ Mia continued.
‘Yes, in Bøler,’ the woman nodded.
‘Are there many of them around?’ Mia wanted to know.
‘Yes, they’re everywhere. Where do you live?’
‘Thank you so much,’ Mia said. ‘I’ll look for one.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the woman said. ‘Have you thought about adoption?’
‘I’m thinking about it,’ Mia said, picking up her coffee from the counter. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘We need to stick together.’ The woman winked at her.
‘Yes, we do.’
Mia winked back at her and carefully carried her coffee back to her table, just as her mobile rang.
‘Yes? Mia speaking.’
‘It’s Ludvig. Are you busy?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve got something. On the church.’
‘What is it?’
‘We investigated them some years ago. Hvelven Care Centre in Hønefoss made a complaint.’
‘Go on?’
‘Looks like the church has done this before. Persuaded old people to leave them their money.’
‘In Hønefoss?’
‘Yes, three cases. None of them went to court; they were resolved through mediation.’
A care home in Hønefoss. The care home in Høvik. There had to be a link.
‘Can you get me the names of all staff working there during the timeframe we’re talking about?’
‘It’s on its way,’ Ludvig said.
‘Can you check another thing for me?’
‘Aha?’
‘Can you check if there was a support group for childless people in Hønefoss in the period before the baby disappeared?’
‘Of course I can. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow morning, when everything opens again.’
‘Super. Any news about Malin Stoltz?’
‘Still missing without a trace.’
‘We’ll find her.’
‘If anyone can do it, it’s you,’ Ludvig said.
‘Thank you, Ludvig.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
‘See you tomorrow.’
Mia ended the call, knocked back her coffee in one gulp, put on her leather jacket and left the room with a smile on her lips.
Chapter 63
Mia Krüger could only feel sorry for Holger Munch as he sat in the seat next to her while they drove to the chapel in Bøler. They had worked together on countless cases, but she didn’t remember ever seeing him so burdened. He drove in silence with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, staring vacantly through the windscreen with an empty, almost resigned expression. The pressure lay like a heavy cloak on top of the otherwise unruffled detective. This case had reached deep inside his private life. He was involved. Threats had been made against little Marion. Malin Stoltz had clearly managed to rattle Holger Munch to such an extent that he was no longer thinking straight.
‘Nothing from the care home?’ she asked in a calm voice.
Munch shook his head grimly.
‘It looks as if Malin Stoltz lived two lives,’ he added. ‘People knew her at work, but no one had any contact with her outside of it.’
‘Did you manage to talk to your mother?’
Mia knew that this was a sensitive question, but it had to be asked; they had more important priorities now.
Munch nodded.
‘The man who heads the church is some plonker by the name Pastor Simon.’
Munch just about managed to utter the name, Mia noticed. He seemed shaken to the core. Perhaps Anette had been right after all. Perhaps he should have been taken off the case. At this moment in time, she was inclined to agree with her.
‘That was all? No surname?’
Munch sighed and shook his head.
‘Pastor Simon, that was all. I’ve asked Gabriel to see if he can find out any more about him.’
‘And this Lukas Walner? Did she know who he was?’
Munch nodded.
‘I believe he’s this Simon’s assistant.’
‘And you’ve seen them both?’
Mia knew this wasn’t a question Munch wanted to hear either, but it had to be asked.
‘From a distance, yes,’ Munch replied briefly, and opened the window.
He tossed his cigarette out and lit a new one just as they arrived at the white chapel. If Mia hadn’t known where they were going, she wouldn’t have picked this as the building they were looking for. From the outside, there was nothing to suggest that it was a place of worship. It looked like a Scout hut or some other anonymous, public facility. It wasn’t until they had walked through the gate and reached the door that she could see that they had indeed come to the right venue. A small sign beside the front door said ‘Methuselah Church’, and above it there was a small crucifix. The place seemed desert
ed. The door was locked, and she could see no signs of activity anywhere.
Munch walked down the steps and along a gravel path which led to the back of the building. Mia was about to follow him when her mobile rang. She briefly considered ignoring it; given the state Munch was in, she really didn’t want to let him out of her sight, but the whole unit was now on red alert, so she had to. She watched the back of his duffel coat disappear around the corner as she pressed the green button.
‘Yes? Mia here.’
‘Are you Mia Krüger?’
The voice was unfamiliar.
‘Yes, who am I talking to?’
‘You’re hard to track down.’ The voice let out a sigh.
‘Is that right? Who is this, please?’ Mia said.
‘I’m sorry if this is a bad time,’ said the man on the other end. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while but, like I said, it hasn’t been easy.’
Mia followed Munch around the corner and watched her colleague peer through a window.
‘And what is this about?’ Mia said impatiently.
‘My name is Albert Wold,’ the man continued. ‘I’m the Verger of Borre Church.’
Borre Church.
Her whole family was buried in its cemetery.
‘Go on,’ Mia said.
‘Like I said, I’m sorry for disturbing you,’ the verger continued.
‘Has anything happened?’
Munch moved away from the window and continued to walk around the white chapel.
‘Yes. We discovered it a week ago, and the whole thing seems very strange. We didn’t know what to do, apart from contacting you, obviously.’
‘And what has happened?’
‘One of your family graves has been desecrated,’ the verger said.
‘What?’ Mia said. ‘How?’
‘Well, that’s the odd thing,’ the man continued. ‘It would appear that the only grave affected is your sister’s.’
Mia Krüger stopped in her tracks and forgot all about keeping an eye on Munch.
‘Sigrid’s grave?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ the verger said sadly. ‘As far as we can see, none of the other graves has been touched.’
‘Desecrated. How?’