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’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Normal. If it is a man, then he’s not normal.’
‘You mean in terms of sexual inclination?’
‘It doesn’t quite add up, and yet it does, if you know what I mean. Yes, it adds up, but not exactly… something doesn’t add up, and yet it does, somehow.’
She had left him behind now; she was no longer in the room but back inside her own head. Munch let her continue without interrupting her.
‘What is Methohexital?’
Munch opened the folder and flicked through the crime-scene report before he found the answer. She had not read it, of course. Only looked at the photographs, like she used to.
‘It’s marketed under the brand name Brevital. A barbiturate derivative. It’s used by anaesthetists.’
‘An anaesthetic,’ Mia said, and disappeared back inside herself.
Munch was desperate for a cigarette, but he stayed put. He did not want to light up inside, nor did he want to leave her, not now.
‘He didn’t want to hurt her,’ she suddenly said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The killer didn’t want to hurt her. He dressed her up, he washed her. Gave her an anaesthetic. He didn’t want her to suffer. He liked her.’
‘He liked her?’
Mia Krüger nodded softly.
‘Then why did he hang her with a skipping rope?’
‘She was about to start school.’
‘Why the satchel and the books?’
She looked at him as if he were a complete idiot.
‘Same reason.’
‘Why does it say Toni J. W. Smith rather than Pauline Olsen on the books?’
‘I don’t know.’ Mia sighed. ‘That’s the bit which doesn’t add up. Everything else does, except for that, wouldn’t you agree?’
Munch made no reply.
‘The embroidered label at the back of her dress. “M10:14”. That adds up,’ she continued.
‘Mark 10:14. From the Bible? ìSuffer the little children to come unto meî?’
Munch had remembered this detail from the report, which was actually quite thorough, but they had overlooked the significance of the line on the nail.
Mia nodded.
‘But that’s not important. M10:14. He’s just messing with us. There’s something else which matters more.’
‘More than the name on the books?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mia said.
‘Mikkelson wants you back.’
‘To work on this case?’
‘Just back.’
‘No way. I’m not coming back.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m not coming back,’ she exploded. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going back.’
Munch had never seen her like this before. She was trembling; she seemed on the verge of tears. He got up and walked around to the sofa. Sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her head towards his armpit and stroked her hair.
‘There, there, Mia. Let’s call it a day. Thank you so much.’
Mia made no reply; Holger could feel her skinny body quiver against him. She really was unwell. This was something new. He pulled her to standing and helped her up the stairs. Ushered her into the room, to the bed, and covered her with the duvet.
‘You want me to stay the night? Sit here with you? Sleep downstairs on the sofa? Make you some breakfast? I could try to make that spaceship work. Wake you with a cup of coffee?’