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.