I'm Travelling Alone (6 page)

‘Hi, Magnar, it’s been a long time. What have you got?’

‘I’ve found one for you. You have to meet her.’

Yttre had spoken so fast that Munch had missed some of the details, but the short version went as follows: during their second year, Police College students underwent a test developed by scientists at the Institute of Psychology at UCLA. The test, which had a technical name Munch missed, consisted of showing the student a photograph of a murder victim, along with several pictures from the crime scene. The students’ task was to free associate based on the photographs, give their response to them and their observations; the test was presented as quite relaxed, almost a game, so that the students would not feel pressured or realize that they were participating in something significant.

‘I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve run this test, but we’ve never seen a result like this. This girl is unique,’ Yttre had declared, still brimming with enthusiasm.

Holger Munch had met her at a café, a casual meeting outside Police Headquarters. Mia Krüger. In her early twenties, in a white jumper and tight black trousers, with dark hair, not very well cut, and the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. He had taken to her immediately. It was something about the way she moved and talked. How her eyes reacted to his questions, as if she knew that he was testing her; but she replied politely all the same, with a twinkle in her eye, as if to say,
What do you think I am? Dumb or something
?

A few weeks later he had picked her up from Police College with Yttre’s blessing; he had been happy to sort out all the paperwork. There was no need for her to stay in school any longer. This girl was already fully qualified.

Munch smiled to himself and started walking towards the house. The front door was ajar, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

‘Hello? Mia?’

He knocked on the door and took a couple of cautious steps inside the hallway. It suddenly struck him that, even though they had worked together for many years and were close friends, he had never been to her home. He began to feel like an intruder and lingered in the hall before he took a few more reluctant steps inside. He knocked on another half-open door and entered the living room. The room was sparsely furnished: a table, an old sofa, some spindle-back chairs, a fireplace in one corner. The overall effect was rather odd, as if it were not a home, merely a place to stay; no photographs, no personal effects anywhere.

Perhaps he had been mistaken? What if she wasn’t here? Perhaps she had just stayed here for a brief period before moving on, hiding somewhere else?

‘Hello? Mia?’

Munch continued into the kitchen and heaved a sigh of relief. On the kitchen counter below one of the windows there was a coffee machine, one of those big, complicated ones you saw in coffee bars, rather than in people’s homes. He smiled to himself. Now he was sure he was in the right place. Mia Krüger had few vices, but the one thing she could not do without was good coffee. He had lost count of the number of times she had drunk his coffee at work and scrunched up her nose. ‘How do you drink this dishwater? Doesn’t it make you sick?

Munch walked over to the worktop and touched the shiny machine. It was cold. It had not been used for a while. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. She could still be nearby. But something felt very wrong. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was there. He couldn’t resist the temptation, and started opening cupboards and drawers.

‘Hello? Mia? Where are you?’

Chapter 10

Mia Krüger awoke with a jolt and sat upright in her bed.

Someone was in her house.

She had no idea how she had ended up upstairs – she did not remember getting undressed or going to bed – but that was irrelevant right now.
There was someone in the house.
She could hear noises coming from the kitchen. Bottles being taken out of a cupboard and put on the floor. She slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, stuck her hand inside her underwear drawer and pulled out her gun, a small Glock 17. Mia Krüger did not like guns, but she was not an idiot, either. She tiptoed barefoot out of the bedroom, opened the window in the passage and crept out on to the small roof. She felt the cold wind against her bare shoulders and suddenly realized that she was wide awake. She had been sound asleep. Dreaming about Sigrid. A field of yellow wheat. They had been running through the field. Sigrid in front of her, her hair bouncing in slow motion.

Come to me, Mia, come.

Mia shook off the last remnants of sleep, tucked the gun into the waistband of her jeans, jumped down from the roof and landed, nimble as a cat, in the grass. Who the hell could it be? Out here? In her house? About as far from civilization as it was possible to get? She crept around the corner and glanced quickly through the living-room window. No one there. She continued steadily towards the back door, which also had a small window: no one inside. Carefully, she pushed open the door and waited in the doorway for a few seconds before she tiptoed into the hallway. She positioned herself by the entrance to the living room with her back against the wall and took a deep breath before she entered, still with her pistol held out in front of her.

‘Is that any way to greet an old friend?’

Holger Munch was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the table, smiling at her.

‘You bloody idiot,’ Mia sighed. ‘I could have shot you.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Munch grinned and got up. ‘I’m not much of a target.’

He patted his stomach and laughed briefly. Mia placed the gun on the windowsill and went over to give her old colleague a hug. It was not until then that she realized that she was cold, that she was not wearing any shoes or properly dressed and that the pills from last night had yet to leave her system. Her instinct had taken over. Provided her with strength she did not have. She collapsed on to the sofa and wrapped herself in a rug.

‘Are you OK?’

Mia nodded.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Did I scare you?’

‘A little,’ Mia conceded.

‘Sorry,’ Munch apologized. ‘I’ve made some tea. Do you want some? I would have made coffee, but I have no idea how to work that spaceship of yours.’

Mia smiled. She had not seen her colleague for a long time, but their banter was the same.

‘Tea would be good.’ She smiled.

‘Two seconds.’ Munch smiled, too, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Mia glanced sideways at the thick file lying on the table. She did not have a telephone, Internet or access to the newspapers, but it was not difficult to work out that something had happened in the outside world. Something important. So important that Holger Munch had got on a plane, into a car and then on a boat to talk to her.

‘Do we go straight to business, or do you want to do small talk first?’ Munch smiled again and put the teacup on the table in front of her.

‘No more cases for me, Holger.’

Mia shook her head and sipped her tea.

‘No, I know, I know.’ Munch heaved a sigh as he slumped down on one of the spindle-back chairs. ‘That’s why you’re hiding out here – I get it. Not even a mobile? You’re difficult to track down.’

‘That’s kind of the point,’ Mia said dryly.

‘I get it, I get it.’ Munch heaved another sigh. ‘Do you want me to leave right now?’

‘No, you can stay for a while.’

Suddenly, Mia felt uncertain. In two minds. Up until now, she had felt resolved and determined. She rummaged around in her pocket, but could find no more pills. Not that she wanted some, not with Holger Munch there, but a drink would have been welcome.

‘So what do you think?’ Munch asked, and tilted his head a little.

‘What do I think about what?’

‘Are you going to take a peek at it?’

He nodded towards the file on the table between them.

‘I think I’ll pass,’ she said, tightening the rug around her.

‘OK,’ Munch replied, and took out his mobile.

He entered the number of the young man with the messy hair.

‘Munch speaking. Can you pick me up, please? I’m done out here.’

Mia Krüger shook her head. He had not changed. He knew exactly how to get his way.

‘You’re an idiot.’

Munch covered the microphone with his hand.

‘What did you say?’

‘All right, all right. I’ll take a quick look at it, but that’s it. OK?’

‘Forget about picking me up. I’ll call you later.’

Munch ended the call and edged his chair nearer to the table.

‘So how do we play it?’ he asked, placing his hand on the file.

‘I want a pair of socks and a thick jumper. You’ll find everything in my bedroom. And then I want a drink. There’s a bottle of cognac in the cupboard below the kitchen worktop.’

‘Have you started drinking?’ Munch said, getting up. ‘That’s unlike you?’

‘And if you can keep quiet, that would be great,’ Mia said, and opened the file on the table in front of her.

It contained about twenty-five photographs and a crime-scene report. Mia Krüger spread the photographs across the table.

‘What do you think? First impression?’ Munch called out from the kitchen.

‘I can see why you’ve come,’ Mia said quietly.

Munch returned, put the drink on the floor beside her and disappeared again.

‘Take as long as you need. I’ll fetch anything you want and then I’ll go down and look at the sea, all right?’

Mia did not hear what he said. She had already shut out the world. She took a large gulp of her drink, exhaled deeply and began studying the photographs.

Chapter 11

Munch sat on a rock watching the sun go down on the horizon. He had always thought of Hønefoss as quiet – when he lay in his room at night, there was barely a sound – but it was nothing compared to this. This was true silence. And beauty. Munch had not seen a view like this for a long time. He could see why she had chosen this place. Such calm. And what clean air. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It really was unique. He looked at the time on his mobile. Two hours had passed. It was a long time, but she could have all the time in the world. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps he should just stay out here? Follow her example, throw away his mobile. Ignore the world? Let go completely? No, there was Marion to think about; he could never abandon her. He didn’t care much about anyone else. But then he started to feel guilty. An image of his mother in her wheelchair on her way to her prayer meeting flashed up in his mind. He hoped it had gone well. That was supposed to be his job. Taking her to the chapel every Wednesday. He had no idea why she insisted on going, she had never been very religious in the past; not that it made any difference. The situation made Munch feel uncomfortable, but his mother was old enough to know her own mind.

‘Holger?’

Munch’s train of thought was interrupted by Mia’s voice calling out from the house.

‘Have you finished?’

‘I think so.’

Munch got up quickly, stretched to combat the stiffness and walked briskly back towards the house.

‘So what do you think?’

‘I think we need food,’ Mia said. ‘I’ve heated some soup.’

Munch entered the living room and sat down on the spindle-back chair again. The photographs were no longer scattered across the table but were back inside the folder.

Mia appeared, said nothing, put a bowl of steaming-hot soup on the table in front of him. It was clear that she was distracted; he recognized that look of hers: she was lost in thought and did not want to be disturbed. He ate his soup without saying a word and let her finish hers before coughing softly to rouse her.

‘Pauline Olsen. That’s an old-fashioned name for a six-year-old girl,’ Mia said.

‘She was known as Line,’ Munch said.

‘Eh?’

‘She was named after her maternal grandmother, but she was only ever called Line.’

Mia Krüger looked at him with an expression he could not quite fathom. She was still somewhere deep inside herself.

‘Line Olsen,’ Munch continued. ‘Aged six, due to start school this autumn. Found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random passer-by. No signs of sexual assault. Killed with an overdose of Methohexital. Satchel on her back. It was stuffed full of schoolbooks – not hers; as I said, she had yet to start school. Pencil case, ruler, all the books bound with paper, no fingerprints. Every book is labelled with the name Toni J. W. Smith, rather than the victim’s own, for some reason. Her clothes are clean, freshly ironed; none of them her own, according to her mother. Everything is new.’

‘It’s a doll,’ Mia said.

‘Pardon?’ Munch said.

A glassy-eyed Mia slowly filled her glass; she had fetched the cognac bottle from the kitchen while he had been outside, and it was almost empty.

‘The clothes belong to a doll,’ Mia continued. ‘The whole outfit does. Where are they from?’

Munch shrugged apologetically.

‘Sorry, I only know what it says in the report. I’m not investigating the case.’

‘Mikkelson sent you?’

Munch nodded.

‘There will be others,’ Mia said quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There will be others. She’s just the first.’

‘Are you sure?’

Mia gave him a look.

‘Sorry,’ Munch said.

‘She has a number on the nail of her little finger,’ Mia said.

Mia took a photograph from the folder. A close-up of the girl’s left hand. She placed it in front of Munch and pointed.

‘Do you see? A number has been scraped into the nail of her little finger. It might look like just a scratch, but it isn’t. It’s the number one. There will be others.’

Munch stroked his beard. To him, it looked like just a scratch, and it had been noted in the report as such, but he said nothing.

‘How many?’ he said, to prompt her.

‘As many as the number of fingers, perhaps.’

‘Ten?’

‘It’s hard to say. Could be.’

‘So you’re sure? That there will be others, I mean?’

Mia rolled her eyes at him again and took another swig of her drink.

‘This is clinical. The killer took his time. Incidentally, I’m not sure that it’s a man, or it could be a man, but he isn’t, well Ö’