I'm Travelling Alone (3 page)

My little Indian
, her grandmother used to call her. And she could have been – apart from the blue eyes. An American Indian. Kiowa or Sioux or Apache. Mia had always been fascinated by Indians when she was a child; there had never been any doubt whose side she was on. The cowboys were the baddies, the Indians the goodies.
How are you today, Mia Moonbeam?
Mia touched her face in the mirror and remembered her grandmother with love. She looked at her long hair. Soft, raven-black hair flowing over her delicate shoulders. She had not had hair as long as this for a long time. She had started to wear it short when she started at Police College. She had not gone to a hairdresser’s but cut it herself at home, just grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped it off. To show that she did not care about looking pretty. About showing off. She didn’t wear make-up either. ‘You’re naturally beautiful, my little Indian,’ her grandmother had said one evening when she had plaited Mia’s hair in front of the fireplace back home in Åsgårdstrand. ‘Do you see how beautiful your eyelids are, how fine your long eyelashes? Do you see that nature has already made you up? You don’t have to bother with make-up. We don’t paint ourselves for the boys. They’ll come when the time is right.’ An Indian with Granny. And a Norwegian at school. What could be more perfect? Mia suddenly felt a bit nauseous from the pills; they didn’t just bring her oblivion and well-being. This would happen from time to time because she never bothered checking which pills she mixed together. She supported herself against the wall with one hand until the worst had passed, lifted her gaze once more, forcing herself to stand in front of the mirror a little longer. Look at herself. One final time.

Ten days left.

The eighteenth of April.

She was not particularly interested in what it would be like. Her final moment. If it would hurt. If it would be difficult to let go. She did not believe the stories about your life flashing by in front of your eyes as you died. Or perhaps it
was
true? It didn’t really matter. The story of Mia Krüger’s life was imprinted on her body. She could see her life in the mirror. An Indian with Norwegian eyes. Long, black hair which she used to cut short but was now cascading past her thin, white shoulders. She tugged her hair behind one ear and studied the scar near her left eye. A 3-centimetre-long cut, a scar that would never fade away completely. She had been interrogating a murder suspect after a young girl from Latvia had been found floating in the River Aker. Mia had failed to pay attention, hadn’t seen the knife; luckily, she had managed to swerve so that it did not blind her. She had worn a patch over her eye for several months afterwards; she had the doctors at Ullevål Hospital to thank that she still had her sight in both eyes. She held up her left hand in front of the mirror and looked at the missing fingertip. Another suspect, a farm outside Moss,
mind the dog
. The Rottweiler had gone for her throat, but she had raised her hand just in time. She could still feel its teeth around her fingers, how the panic had spread inside her in the few seconds it took before she got the pistol out of her holster and blew the head off the manic dog. She shifted her eyes down to the small butterfly she had had tattooed on her hip, right above her knicker line. She had been a nineteen-year-old girl in Prague, thinking herself a woman of the world. She had met a Spanish guy, a summer fling, they had drunk far too much Becherovka and both woken up with a tattoo. Hers was a small purple, yellow and green butterfly. Mia was tempted to smile. She had considered having it removed several times, embarrassed by the idiocy of her youth, but had never got round to it and, now, it no longer mattered. She stroked the slender silver bracelet on her right wrist. They had been given one each as confirmation presents, Sigrid and her. A charm bracelet with a heart, an anchor and an initial. An M on hers. An S on Sigrid’s. That night, when the party was over and the guests had gone home, they had been sitting in their shared bedroom at home in Åsgårdstrand when Sigrid had suddenly suggested that they swapped.

You take mine and I’ll have yours?

From that day, Mia had never taken the silver bracelet off.

The tablets were making her feel even more dopey; she could barely see herself in the mirror now. Her body was like a ghost; it seemed far away. A scar by her left eye. A little finger missing the two outer joints. A Czech butterfly right above her knicker line. Skinny arms and legs. An Indian with sad, blue, almost dead eyes … and then she couldn’t take any more, she averted her eyes from the mirror, stumbled into the shower cubicle and stood underneath the warm water for so long that it finally turned icy.

She avoided the mirror when she stepped out. Walked naked down to the living room and dried herself in front of the fireplace, where no one had lit a fire. Went into the kitchen and poured herself another drink. Found more pills in a drawer. Chewed them while she got dressed. Even more spaced out now. Clean on the outside and soon, also, on the inside.

Mia put on her knitted beanie and her jacket and left the house. She walked down to the sea. Sat on a rock and rested her eyes on the horizon. Contemplation by the sea. Where had she heard that expression before? At a festival, yes, that was it, a new Norwegian film festival started by celebrities who thought Norwegian films ought to be more action based. Mia Krüger loved films, but could not quite see how Norwegian films had changed for the better just by avoiding scenes of contemplation by the sea. She groaned whenever some poor sod tried to portray a police officer on film: most of the time she had to leave the auditorium out of secondhand embarrassment with the actor who had been given these lines and been told by the director to do this or that; it was quite simply too cringe making. No more contemplation by the sea. Mia Krüger smiled faintly to herself and took a swig from the bottle she had brought outside with her. If she had not come to Hitra to die, she would have liked to live here.

The eighteenth of April.

It had come to her one day, like a kind of vision, and from then on everything had slotted into place. Sigrid had been found dead on 18 April 2002. In a basement in Tøyen in Oslo, on a rotting mattress, still with the needle in her arm. She had not even had time to undo the strap. The overdose had killed her instantaneously. In ten days, it would be exactly ten years ago. Lovely little, sweet, beautiful Sigrid had died from an overdose of heroin in a filthy basement. Just one week after Mia had picked up from the rehab clinic in Valdres.

Oh, but she had looked wonderful, Sigrid, after four weeks at the facility. Her cheeks glowing, her smile back. In the car, returning to Oslo, it had been almost like the old days, the two of them laughing and joking like they used to in the garden at home in Åsgårdstrand.

‘You’re Snow White and I’m Sleeping Beauty.’

‘But I want to be Sleeping Beauty! Why do I always have to be Snow White?’

‘Because you have dark hair, Mia.’

‘Oh, is that why?’

‘Yes, that’s why. Haven’t you worked it out yet?’

‘No.’

‘You’re stupid.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Do we have to play Snow White and Sleeping Beauty? We’ll both have to sleep for a hundred years while we wait for a prince to wake us. That’s no fun, why can’t we make up our own game?’

‘Oh, he’ll come one day, just you wait and see, Mia, he’ll come.’

In Sigrid’s case, the prince had been an idiot from Horten. He thought of himself as a musician, even played in some kind of band, which never gave concerts; all they ever did was hang out in the park, where they smoked joints or took speed or got high. He was just another skinny, opinionated loser. Mia Krüger could not bear even to say his name, the mere thought of him made her feel so sick that she had to straighten up and take deep breaths. She followed the path along the rocks, past the boat house, and sat down on the jetty. On the distant shore she could see activity. People doing people things. What time was it now? She shielded her eyes and looked up at the sky. She reckoned twelve, possibly, or maybe one; it looked like it might be, judging by the sun. She took another swig from the bottle, feeling the pills starting to take effect, strip her of her senses, make her indifferent. She dangled her feet over the edge of the jetty and turned her face to the sun.

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.