‘Do you think it’ll be a good one?’
Tobias got up and put an arrow against the string, pulled the bow string as far as he could and let the arrow fly in between the trees.
‘Awesome!’ his brother cried out. ‘Would you make one for me as well, please?’
‘This one is for you,’ Tobias said with a wink.
His brother’s cheeks flushed and his gaze softened. He tightened the bow as hard as he could and managed to get the arrow to go a few metres. He looked at Tobias, who nodded affirmatively – good shot – then he went to fetch the arrow.
‘Why don’t we shoot the Christian girls?’ Torben said when he came back.
‘What do you mean?’ Tobias said, somewhat startled.
‘The Christian girls who live in the forest? Why don’t we shoot them?’
‘We don’t shoot people,’ Tobias said, taking his brother by the arm quite firmly. ‘And how come you know about the Christian girls?’
‘I heard it at school,’ his brother said. ‘That Christian girls live in the forest now and they eat people.’
Tobias chuckled to himself.
‘It’s true there are new people living in the forest.’ He smiled. ‘But they’re not dangerous and they definitely don’t eat people.’
‘So why don’t they go to our school?’ his wide-eyed brother demanded to know. ‘If they live here?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Tobias replied. ‘I think they have their own school.’
His brother’s face turned very serious.
‘I bet that’s really good. And that’s why they don’t want to go to ours.’
‘Probably.’ Tobias winked at him again. ‘So, where do you want to hunt bison today?’ he continued, and ruffled his brother’s hair. ‘Up by Rundvann?’
‘Probably,’ said the younger boy, who wanted to be like his brother. ‘I think so.’
‘Rundvann it is. Please, would you go and get the first arrow I shot? That is, if you think you can find it?’
His brother nodded.
‘I guess I can,’ he said with a sly smile, and raced off in between the trees.
Chapter 9
Holger Munch was not feeling entirely comfortable as he sat in the small motorboat going from Hitra to an even smaller island just beyond it. Not that he was seasick, no, Holger Munch loved being at sea, but he had just spoken to Mikkelson on the phone. Mikkelson had sounded very strange, not his usual brusque self at all; he had been almost humble, wishing Munch the best of luck, hoping that he would do his best. Said that it was important that the police worked together as a team now – lots of morale boosting, very unlike Mikkelson, and Munch didn’t like it one bit. Something had quite clearly happened. Something Mikkelson did not want to tell Munch about.
Munch pulled his jacket tighter against the wind and tried to light a cigarette as the boat chugged steadily towards the mouth of the fjord. He did not think that the young man with the dishevelled hair steering the boat was a police officer, but some sort of local volunteer, and the reason he had not been able to take Munch to the island until two o’clock was still unclear, but Munch had not had the energy to find out. He had met him on the quay, asked him if he knew where the island was and the young man with the unruly hair had nodded and pointed. Only fifteen minutes by boat. It was Rigmor’s old place, she had lived there with her son, but then her son had moved to Australia, probably because of a woman, and Rigmor had had no choice but to move to Hitra and her place had been sold, apparently to some girl from East Norway; no one knew much about her, she had been seen her heading to Fillan a couple of times, a pretty girl, about thirty, long, black hair, always wore sunglasses. Was that where he was going? Was it important?
The young man shouted all this over the noise from the engine, but Holger Munch, who had not said a word since greeting him at the quay, stayed silent. He just let the lad talk while, for the third time, he shielded his lighter against the wind with his hand and tried to light the cigarette, again without success.
As they approached the island, the faint nausea he had felt after talking to Mikkelson began to dissipate. He realized he would be seeing her soon. He had missed her. He had last seen her a year ago. At the convalescent home. Or the madhouse, or whatever they called it these days. She had not been herself; he had barely been able to make contact with her. He had tried reaching her a couple of times, by phone and email, but there had been no reply, and when he saw the pretty little island in front of him, he understood why. She didn’t want to be reached. She wanted to be alone.
The motorboat docked at a small jetty and Munch climbed ashore, not as nimbly as he would have done ten years ago, but his fitness level was nowhere near as poor as people’s comments tended to suggest.
‘Do you want me to wait, or will you give me a call when you want taking back?’ said the young man with the messy hair, clearly hoping he would be asked to wait, join in the excitement. Munch had a hunch that not a lot happened out here.
‘I’ll call you,’ Munch said tersely, and raised his hand to his forehead by way of goodbye.
He turned and looked up towards the house. He waited while he listened to the sound of the engine disappear across the sea behind him. It was a pretty place. She had taste, Mia, no doubt about it. She had picked the perfect place to hide. Her own little island close to the mouth of the fjord. From the jetty, a narrow path led up to a small, white, idyllic house. Munch was no expert, but it looked as if the place might have been built in the 1950s, perhaps originally as a summer cabin which had later been turned into all-year accommodation. Mia Krüger. It would be good to see her again.
He remembered the first time he had met her. Shortly after the special investigation unit had been set up, he had had a call from Magnar Yttre, an old colleague and now principal of the Police College. Although he had not spoken to Yttre for years, his old colleague did not waste one second on small talk. ‘I think I’ve found one for you,’ he had announced, sounding almost as proud as a little kid showing his parents a drawing.
‘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.