I'm Travelling Alone (27 page)

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Good, talk to you later.’

Mia ended the call just as Munch appeared on the steps. She was about to join him, but stopped when she noticed that he wasn’t alone. A female carer in the same white uniform as the girl with the blue eyes was standing next to him. Pretty and slim with long, wavy, strawberry blonde hair. She laughed out loud and touched Munch, who, for his part, acted like a teenager, his cheeks flushed and his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets. Mia popped a lozenge into her mouth and wandered to one side. Munch and the carer with the strawberry blonde hair exchanged a few comments, then she touched him again before disappearing back inside with a smile.

‘How did it go?’ Mia asked when Munch came down to the car.

‘Don’t ask,’ Munch said, and lit a cigarette.

‘Who was she?’

‘Who?’ Munch asked.

‘Who do you think?’

Munch got into the car without putting out his cigarette.

‘Oh, her. That’s … I think she’s called Karen. She looks after my mother. I just had to …’

Munch started the car and pulled out on Høvikveien.

‘Yes? You just had to what?’

‘Any news?’ Munch said, changing the subject.

‘The press conference is on now.’

Munch turned on the radio. Mia heard Anette’s voice: ‘No news, we’re still looking. We would welcome any information.’ They had nothing new to announce. Even so, the world demanded a press conference. Mia glanced at Munch, who was still lost in a world of his own. She wondered if she should tell him that Veronica Bache had shared a care home with his mother, but decided to let it lie for now. Gabriel was on the case and Munch looked as if he had enough on his plate.

‘You have to see a psychologist,’ Munch said out of the blue when they were back on Drammensveien.

‘What do you mean?’

Munch took out the business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

‘You have to see a psychologist.’

‘Says who?’

‘Mikkelson.’

‘Screw that.’

‘Don’t look at me. They heard your call last night. They don’t think you’re all there.’

‘Well, they can forget about that,’ Mia snarled.

‘That’s exactly what I told them.’

‘Then we agree.’

Mia opened the glove compartment and chucked the business card in it without looking at it.

‘Bloody cheek.’

‘What had you expected?’

‘How about a bit of respect?’

‘Good luck with that.’ Munch sighed. ‘Why don’t we stop for a burger on the way back?’

‘Fine by me,’ Mia said.

Munch found an exit and pulled up at a petrol station, just as it started to rain.

Chapter 40

The rain was tipping down outside the windows of
Aftenposten
’s editorial offices at Postgirobygget. They had gathered in Grung’s office to watch the press conference, which had been scheduled for noon but been postponed for ten minutes. Present were Mikkel Wold, Silje Olsen, Erik Rønning and Grung, their editor, and although Mikkel did not like to think of it in such terms, for once he had been given the VIP seat, a leather chair next to Grung. There had been a shift since that phone call at Skullerud. He had moved up the ranks. Suddenly, he was at the centre of events. Grung turned down the TV volume and opened the meeting.

They had kept it in house that the killer had contacted them. They had not run a story on it. Not yet. This was the agenda for the meeting. Should they use it? And, if they did, then how?

‘I say we wait,’ Silje said, taking a bite of her apple.

‘Why?’ Grung said.

‘Because we don’t know if he or she will go underground if we go public with it.’

‘I say we run it. Why the hell not?’ Erik said.

The twenty-six-year-old, highly talented journalist had been the apple of Grung’s eye ever since he first hired him, and he usually got the chair which Mikkel was now occupying. If the young lad was jealous or envious, he was hiding it well. He sat relaxed, his legs apart, but he was playing with a rubber stress ball.

‘What’s to stop her from calling
VG
tomorrow? Or
Dagbladet
tonight?’ he went on. ‘We have the chance of a scoop, but we have to act now.’

Mikkel Wold rolled his eyes. Erik had started using the word ‘scoop’ quite a lot after winning the Scoop Prize last year for a series of features about the homeless in Oslo.

‘So why hasn’t she called them already?’ Silje sparred.

Silje and Erik were like day and night. She: twenty-something, loud, pierced lip and vociferous, left-wing liberal views, certainly for someone working for
Aftenposten.
He: calm, level-headed, usually dressed in a suit, water combed hair, every mother-in-law’s dream, with a pleasing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Whenever there was a discussion at the office, the two of them were usually on opposite sides of the argument.

Mikkel Wold was more a journalist of the old school. Notepad and paper and close to his sources; he had never written about anything or anyone he had not met in person or at least been in contact with. These days, it was mostly in the form of a press release and a quick phone call; sometimes not even a quick phone call. In terms of dress style, he sided neither with Silje nor Erik. He was halfway between the two and perhaps he was a little dull. He wondered about it sometimes. If he should make the effort to buy some smarter clothes, which would – now, what was it the magazine his sister always had on display – ‘bring out his personality’. But he never had. The clothes in his wardrobe had been there for almost ten years. It was because – he didn’t quite know how to put it – well, because a vain, self-obsessed appearance, whatever your style of choice, just didn’t fit in with a serious job like his. And he had been proved right. The killer had called him. Not one of the others.

‘You’re right,’ Erik said. ‘Let’s run the risk.’

‘Oh, please, Erik, passive-aggressive arguing is the preserve of us ladies, isn’t that right?’

‘Was I being passive aggressive just now?’

‘Oh, Jesus, give me a break.’ Silje laughed.

‘What do you think, Mikkel?’ Grung said, turning to him.

For once, the other two fell silent. Everyone wanted to know his opinion. He was loath to admit it, but mysterious caller had inadvertently done him a favour.

‘I’m not sure.’ Mikkel cleared his throat. ‘On the one hand, I know that we could run a story on it, no doubt about it.’

‘And it would be an exclusive,’ Erik interjected, rolling the stress ball along the table in front of him. ‘Just us. No one else. I say go.’

‘But on the other hand,’ Mikkel continued, ‘it would be silly to blow it on a headline or two and then lose the source. We might actually be able to help.’

There was silence around the table again.

‘Help?’ Silje said. ‘Do you mean, go to the cops?’

‘The police.’ Grung sighed. ‘This isn’t the
Socialist Worker
, you know. We work for
Aftenposten
.’

‘Does that mean we can’t call them cops?’ Silje argued back and took another bite of her apple.

‘Whatever,’ Grung said. ‘It’s something we have to make a decision about.’

‘What is?’ Erik asked.

‘If we go to the police with what we know.’

‘What good would that do?’ Erik sighed. ‘Number one: we haven’t got anything. No hard evidence. Not something the police can use – but we can, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘It feels strange to hear myself say it but, on this point, I actually agree with Erik. Not that we shouldn’t go to the cops …’ Silje nodded.

‘The police,’ Grung corrected her.

‘… but that we don’t have anything they can use. Not yet.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Erik nodded.

‘But that doesn’t mean we should blow it. If we run the story now, who knows what we’ll lose out on? And besides, hello! Three days ago? Old news?’

‘No, it isn’t,’ Erik interrupted her. ‘It’s still fresh.’

‘Shhh, it’s starting,’ Grung said, turning up the volume on the TV.

It was Anette Goli who was giving the press conference today, together with Heidi Simonsen, the public prosecutor.

‘Goli and Simonsen,’ Erik said with a sigh, and started fidgeting with his stress ball again. ‘Why don’t they bring out Munch or Krüger? I fancy writing another feature on Krüger.’

‘Hah.’ Silje laughed scornfully. ‘We all know what you fancy doing to Krüger. A feature? Is that what they call it now?’

‘Hush,’ Grung said, turning up the volume even more.

Anette Goli had just welcomed everyone to the press conference when Mikkel Wold’s phone rang. The meeting room fell completely quiet.

Unknown number.

‘Let it ring twice!’

‘Answer it!’ said Erik and Silje in unison. Grung pressed the mute button on the remote control and mimed ‘Put it on speaker’ to Mikkel Wold. Mikkel sat up in his chair, cleared his throat and answered the call.

‘Yes, hello. Mikkel Wold,
Aftenposten
.’

Crackling noises in the handset. They couldn’t hear anyone at the other end.

‘Wold,
Aftenposten
,’ Mikkel said again, rather more nervous now.

Still nothing. Just hissing.

‘Is anyone there?’ Erik said impatiently.

Grung and Silje both grimaced.

‘Shut up,’ Grung mouthed across the table.

A few seconds passed. Then a grating, metallic voice could be heard.

‘We’re not alone, I gather?’

Even Erik fell quiet at this; he had also stopped messing about with his rubber ball, just sat with his eyes wide open and his mouth gaping. To a large extent, they had assumed that it must be a prank. The killer calling – what was that about? Every journalist’s dream, surely, and why should Wold be the lucky one? Now, there could be no doubt. This was real. Silje spat out the apple bite and placed it carefully on the desk.

‘No,’ Wold said. ‘You’re on speakerphone.’

‘Good heavens, what an honour,’ the metallic voice said archly. ‘
Aftenposten
listens to its readers, but that’s quite all right: it means more of you can take responsibility.’

‘For what?’ Mikkel Wold croaked.

‘We’ll get to that later,’ the voice said. ‘By the way, I thought you were going to the press conference. Didn’t you have a question to ask?’

‘Why did the pig drip on the floor?’ Wold said nervously.

‘Good boy, you remembered it,’ the voice said.

‘I know how to do my job. I don’t ask questions I didn’t come up with and can’t explain,’ Wold said.

He looked across to Grung, who was frantically shaking his head to signal that Wold had given the wrong answer. They had to play along with the caller, not antagonize him or her; they had agreed that in advance. There was silence at the other end.

‘A journalist with integrity,’ the voice laughed after a lengthy pause.

‘Yes,’ Mikkel said.

‘You’re very sweet,’ the voice said scornfully. ‘But everyone knows there’s no such thing as a journalist with integrity. It’s just something you like to think you have. You are aware, aren’t you, that journalists came bottom in a survey last year? About which professions we trust? You were beaten by lawyers, advertising agencies and second-hand-car salesmen. Did you not see it?’

The metallic voice laughed again, almost heartily this time. Erik Rønning shook his head and made a rude gesture at the mobile on the table. Grung glared furiously at him.

‘But that’s not why we’re here,’ the voice said icily.

‘So why are we here?’ Mikkel Wold demanded to know.

‘My, my, you are on form tonight. Did you think of that question all by yourself?’

‘Stop messing about,’ Erik burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer. ‘How do we know you’re not just some time-wasting weirdo who likes playing games?’

Grung’s face turned puce. Unable to control himself, he kicked out at Erik under the table. Another silence followed, but the voice did not go away.

‘That’s a good question,’ the voice said dryly. ‘To whom do I have the honour of speaking?’

‘Erik Rønning,’ Erik said.

‘Good heavens! Would you believe it, Erik Rønning himself! The winner of the 2011 Scoop Prize. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you,’ Erik said.

‘How does it feel to write about the homeless before going home to Frogner to drink Chardonnay in the hot tub? You call that journalistic integrity?’

Erik was about to say something, but thought better of it.

‘But, obviously, Rønning, you’re quite right. How can you be sure that I am who I say I am? Why don’t we play a little game?’

‘What kind of game?’ Erik cleared his throat.

‘I call it Being in the News. Want to play?’

There was total silence around the table. No one dared to say a word.

‘Why don’t I explain the rules before you make up your mind?’ the metallic voice said. ‘You lot always report the news, so I thought you might be getting a little bored. Why not
be
the news for once? How is that for a kick?’

‘What does it involve?’ Mikkel Wold asked.

‘You get to decide,’ the voice said.

‘What do we get to decide?’

‘Who lives and who dies.’

The four journalists stared at each other.

‘What do you mean?’

The voice laughed briefly.

‘What do you think I mean? I have yet to make up my mind. Andrea or Karoline? You get to decide. How cool is that? I’m letting you join in.’

‘Y–you can’t be serious,’ Silje said.

‘Oh, a girl as well, how nice. Who are you?’

‘S–S–Silje Olsen,’ Silje stuttered.

She was clearly intimidated by the gravity of the situation.

‘So what do you make of it all, Silje Olsen?’ the voice said.

‘What do I make of what?’

The voice laughed briefly again.

‘A woman. Do you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ Silje said tentatively.

‘You’re so naive. It’s very simple. It’s far too simple, really. I’m bored. I really am. This is boring. I had expected more of a challenge. Come on, Mikkel, did you believe it?’

‘Yes,’ Mikkel said, having paused to think about it.

‘Oh, please, do I have to be better than anyone else? A woman. A pensioner claims to have seen a woman. How about a transvestite? Did anyone think of that? How about a homeless person? Erik, that’s your area? What do you think a homeless person would do for two thousand kroner? Put on a hoodie and turn up in a street in Skullerud in the middle of the night, especially if they get a lift there and back? Would you have said yes, Erik, if you were homeless?’