A colleague had prescribed her the pills. A mandatory ‘friend’, someone whose job it was to help her forget, process events, move on. A police psychologist – or was he a psychiatrist? She guessed he had to be so he could issue prescriptions. Whatever, she had access to anything she wanted. Even in this far-flung corner of the world and even though it required considerable effort. She had to get dressed. Start the outboard motor on the boat. Freeze for the fifteen minutes it took her to sail to Hitra, the main island. Start the car. Stay on the road for forty minutes until she reached Fillan, the nearest town around here – not that it was much of a town – but inside Hjorten Shopping Arcade was where the chemist could be found, and then she could pay a visit to the off-licence in the same location. The prescriptions would be ready and waiting for her; they had been telephoned through from Oslo. Nitrazepam, Diazepam, Lamictal, Citalopram. Some from the psychiatrist, along with some from her GP. They were all so helpful, so kind – Now, don’t take too many, please be careful – but Mia Krüger had absolutely no intention of being careful. She had not moved out here to get better. She had come here to seek oblivion.
Twelve days left. The eighteenth of April.
Mia Krüger took a bottle of Farris mineral water from the fridge, got dressed and walked down to the sea. She sat on a rock, pulled her jacket more tightly around her and got ready to take the first of today’s pills. She shoved a hand into her trouser pocket. A spectrum of colours. Her head still felt groggy and she could not remember which ones she was supposed to be taking today, but it didn’t matter. She washed them down with a swig from the bottle and dangled her feet over the water. She stared at her boots. It made no sense; it was as if they were not her feet but someone else’s, and they seemed far, far away. She shifted her gaze to the sea instead. That made no sense either, but she made herself stick with it and looked across the sea, towards the distant horizon, at the small island out there, a place whose name she did not know.
She had chosen this location at random. Hitra. A small island in Trøndelag, off the west-central coast of Norway. It could have been anywhere, so long as she was left alone. She had let the estate agent decide. Sell my flat and find me something else. He had looked at her and cocked his head as if she were a lunatic or simple-minded, but he wanted his commission so what did he care? The friendly, white smile that had said, Yes, of course he could, did she want a quick sale? Did she have something specific in mind? Professional courtesy, but she had seen his true nature. She felt nauseous just thinking about it. Fake, revolting eyes. She had always been able to see straight through anyone she came near. On that occasion, it had been an estate agent, a slippery eel in a suit and tie, and she had not liked what she saw.
You have to use this talent you have been given. Don’t you see? You need to use it for something. And this is what you’re meant to use it for.
No, she bloody wouldn’t. Not any more. Never again. The thought made her feel strangely calm. Come to think of it, she had been extremely composed ever since she moved here. To Hitra. The estate agent had done a good job. She felt something bordering on gratitude towards him.
Mia Krüger got up from the rock and followed the path back to the house. It was time for the first drink of the day. She did not know what time it was, but it was definitely due now. She had bought expensive alcohol, ordered it specially; it was possibly a contradiction in terms, but why not enjoy something luxurious, given how little time she had left? Why this? Why that? She had stopped sweating the small stuff a long time ago. She opened a bottle of Armagnac Domaine de Pantagnan 1965 Labeyrie and filled the teacup which was sitting unwashed on the kitchen counter three quarters full. An 800 kroner Armagnac in a filthy teacup. Look how little it bothers me? Do you think I care? She smiled faintly to herself, found some more pills in her trouser pocket and walked back down to the rocks.
Once again she felt almost grateful to the estate agent with the too-white teeth. If she had to live somewhere, it might as well be here. Fresh air, a sea view, the tranquillity beneath the white clouds. She had no links to Trøndelag, but she had liked this island from the moment she first saw it. They had deer here, countless herds of them, and it had intrigued her: deer belonged elsewhere, in Alaska, in the movies. These beautiful animals which people insisted on hunting. Mia Krüger had learned to shoot at Police College, but she had never liked guns. Guns were not for fun, guns were something you used only when you had no other choice and, even so, not then either. The deer season in Hitra lasted from September to November. One day on her way to the chemist, she had passed a group of young people busy tying a deer to the bed of their truck. It had been in February, outside the hunting season, and for a moment she had contemplated pulling over, taking down their names and reporting them to ensure they got their well-deserved punishment, but she had choked it back and let it go.
Once a police officer, always a police officer?
Not any more. No way.
Twelve days to go. The eighteenth of April.
She drank the last of her Armagnac, rested her head against the rock and closed her eyes.
Chapter 3
Holger Munch was sweating as he waited to pick up the rental car in the arrivals hall at Værnes Airport. As usual, the plane had been late, due to fog at Gardermoen Airport, and once again Holger was reminded of Jan Fredrik Wiborg, the civil engineer who had killed himself in Copenhagen after criticizing the expansion plans for Oslo’s main airport, citing unfavourable weather conditions. Even now, eighteen years later, Munch was unable forget that the body of a fully grown man had been found beneath a hotel-room window too small for him to have got through just before the Airport Bill was due to be debated in the Storting, the Norwegian Parliament. And why had the Danish and Norwegian police been reluctant to investigate his death properly?
Holger Munch abandoned his train of thought as a blonde girl behind the Europcar counter cleared her throat to let him know it was his turn to be served.
‘Munch,’ he said curtly. ‘I believe a car has been booked for me.’
‘Right, so you’re the guy who is getting a new museum in Oslo?’ The girl in the green uniform winked at him.
Munch did not get the joke immediately.
‘Or maybe you’re not the artist?’ She smiled as she cheerfully bashed the keyboard in front of her.
‘Eh? No, not the artist, no,’ Munch said dryly. ‘Not even related.’
Or I wouldn’t be standing here, not if I had that inheritance, Munch thought as the girl handed him a form to sign.
Holger Munch hated flying, which explained his bad mood. Not because he feared that the plane might crash – Holger Munch was an amateur mathematician and knew that the risk of the plane crashing was less than being struck by lightning twice in the same day – no, Holger Munch hated planes because he could barely fit into the seat.
‘There you are.’ The girl in the green uniform smiled kindly and handed him the keys. ‘A nice big Volvo V70, all paid for, open-ended rental period and mileage, you can return it when and where you like, have a nice trip.’
Big? Was this another one of her jokes, or was she merely trying to reassure him? Here’s a nice big car for you, because you have grown so fat that you can barely see your own feet?
On his way to the multistorey car park, Holger Munch caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the large windows outside the arrivals hall. Perhaps it was about time. Start exercising. Eat a slightly healthier diet. Lose a bit of weight. Lately, he had begun to think along those lines. He no longer had to run down the streets chasing criminals; he had people working for him who could do that, so that was not the reason – no, in the last few weeks, Holger Munch had become rather vain.