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.
Wow, Holger, new jumper? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Munch replied. ‘But I’m afraid I’m about to ask you to do me yet another favour.’
‘Go on, then, ask away, Holger.’ The woman on the telephone laughed.
They had had a nodding acquaintance for some years. Karen was one of the carers at the home, where his mother had initially refused to live, but where now she appeared to have settled down.
‘It’s Wednesday again.’ Munch heaved a sigh.
‘And you won’t be able to make it?’
‘No, sadly not,’ he replied. ‘I’m out of town.’
‘I understand,’ Karen said, chuckling. ‘I’ll see if somebody here can give her a lift. If not, I’ll order her a cab.’
‘I’ll pay for it, of course,’ Munch quickly interjected.
‘No problem.’
‘Thank you, Karen.’
‘Don’t mention it, Holger. You’ll manage next Wednesday, I expect?’
‘Oh, I will.’
‘Great. Perhaps we’ll see each other then?’
‘That’s very likely.’ Munch coughed. ‘Thank you so much and, well, give her my best.’
‘Will do.’
Munch ended the call and returned to the bench.
Why don’t you ask her out? Where’s the harm? A cup of coffee? A trip to the cinema?
He dismissed the idea just as an email pinged to announce its arrival on his mobile. He had been dead against having one, these new-fangled mobiles where everything was gathered in one place – how would he ever get a moment’s peace? Still, right now it suited him just fine. He smiled as he opened the email and read another challenge from Juri, a Russian he had met on the Net some years ago. Nerds the world over gathered on Math2.org’s message board. Juri was a sixty-something-year-old professor from Minsk. Munch would not go so far as calling him a friend – after all, they had never met in real life – but they had exchanged email addresses and were in contact from time to time. They discussed chess and, every now and then, they would challenge each other with brainteasers, as was the case now.
Water flows into a tank. The volume of water doubles every minute. The tank is full in one hour. How long does it take for the tank to be half full? J.
Munch lit another cigarette and pondered the question for a while before he found the answer. Ha-ha. He liked Juri. He had even considered going to visit him one day – why not? He had never been to Russia – why not meet up with people you had got to know on the Internet? He had made several acquaintances in this way, mrmichigan40 from the US, margrete_08 from Sweden, Birrrdman from South Africa. Chess and mathematics nerds but, more importantly, people like him, so yes – why not? Organize a trip, make new friends – surely that would be all right? He wasn’t that old, was he? And when was the last time he travelled anywhere? He caught a glimpse of his own reflection on the screen of his mobile and put it down on the bench next to him.
Fifty-four. He didn’t think that number could be quite right. He felt much older. He had aged ten years the day Marianne had told him about the teacher from Hurum. He had tried to stay calm. He should have seen it coming. His long days at work and his general absent-mindedness. Away with the fairies, even on the rare occasions he was at home. Ultimately, there would be a price to pay, he’d known, but now, and like this? She had been completely relaxed, as if she had rehearsed her speech several times. They had met on a course. Stayed in touch ever since. They had developed feelings for one another. They had met a few times, in secret, but she no longer wanted to live a dishonest life. In the end, he had failed to keep his cool. He, who had never raised a hand to anyone. He had howled and hurled his dinner plate at the wall. Shouted and chased her around the house. He was still ashamed of his behaviour. Miriam had come running down from her room, crying. Fifteen years old then, now twenty-five and about to get married. Fifteen years, and taking her mother’s side. Not surprising, really. How much time had he ever spent at home being available to them during all those years?
He felt reluctant to reply to Miriam’s message: it was so short and cold, symbolic of how their relationship was and had been, it only piled on the pressure – as if the folder lying in the hire car were not enough.
Could you add a few thousand extra? We have decided to invite cousins. M.
The wedding. No problem, he texted, and added a smiley face, but deleted it. He saw the message go out and thought about his granddaughter, Marion. Miriam had told him to his face soon after Marion’s birth that she was not at all certain that he deserved to have any contact with the baby. Fortunately, she had changed her mind. Now, these were his most treasured moments. His hours with lovely, totally straightforward Marion, a bright light in his daily life, which, to be completely honest, had been fairly dark since his transfer back to Hønefoss.
He had let Marianne keep the house after the divorce. It had seemed like the right thing to do. Otherwise, Miriam would have had to move away from her friends and her school and her handball. He had bought a small flat in Bislett, suitably near to them and suitably far from his work. He had kept the flat after his transfer and was now renting a studio flat in Ringveien, not far from Hønefoss Police Station. His belongings were still in cardboard boxes. He had not taken very much – he had expected a quick return to the capital once the public outcry had died down – but now, almost two years later, he was still there, and he had yet to unpack, as neither place felt like home.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are people much worse off than you.
Munch stubbed out the cigarette and thought about the file in his car. A six-year-old girl had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random dog-walker. He had not come across a case like this for a long time. No wonder they were sweating down at Grønland.
He picked up his mobile and replied to Juri’s email.
59 minutes
HM
Munch was loath to admit it to himself, but the file on the passenger seat sent shivers down his spine. He started the car, pulled out on to the main road and continued his journey east to Hitra.
Chapter 6
The man with the eagle tattoo on his neck had put on a roll-neck jumper for the occasion. He used to really like Oslo Central Station – the crowds made it the perfect place for a man of his profession – but these days there were so many cameras that practically nowhere was safe. He had started arranging his meetings and transactions at other venues long ago, at cinemas and kebabs shops, places where you were less likely to be identified, should your business lead to a major investigation. It rarely did – he did not operate on such a large scale any more – but still, better safe than sorry.