I'm Travelling Alone (2 page)

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.

Wow, Holger, new jumper? Wow, Holger new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?

He unlocked the Volvo, placed his mobile in the cradle and turned it on. He put on the seatbelt and was heading towards the centre of Trondheim when his messages started coming through. He heaved a sigh. One hour with his phone turned off and now it was kicking off again. No respite from the world. It was not entirely fair to say that it was the flight alone which had put him in a bad mood. There had been a lot happening recently, both at work and at home. Holger swiped his finger across the smartphone’s screen; it was a model they had told him to buy, it was all about high-tech these days, the twenty-first-century police force, even in Hønefoss, where he had worked for the last eighteen months for Ringerike Police. This was where he had started his career, and now he had come back. Because of the Tryvann incident.

Seven calls from Oslo Police Headquarters at Grønland. Two from his ex-wife. One from his daughter. Two from the care home. Plus countless text messages.

Holger Munch decided to ignore the world for a little longer and turned on the radio. He found NRK Klassisk, opened the window and lit a cigarette. Cigarettes were his only vice – apart from food, obviously – but they were in a different league in terms of attraction. Holger Munch had no intention of ever quitting smoking, no matter how many laws the politicians came up with and how many
SMOKING PROHIBITED
signs they put up all over Norway, including on the dashboard of his rental car.

He could not think without a cigarette, and there was nothing Holger Munch loved more than thinking. Using his brain. Never mind about the body, as long as his brain worked. They were playing Handel’s ‘Messiah’ on the radio, not Munch’s favourite, but he was OK with it. He was more of a Bach man himself; he liked the mathematics of the music, not all those emotional composers: Wagner’s bellicose Aryan tempo, Ravel’s impressionistic, emotional landscape. Munch listened to classical music precisely to escape these human feelings. If people were mathematical equations, life would be much simpler. He quickly touched his wedding ring and thought about Marianne, his ex-wife. It had been ten years now, and still he could not make himself take it off. She had rung him. Perhaps she was …

No. It would be about the wedding, obviously. She wanted to talk about the wedding. They had a daughter together, Miriam, who was getting married shortly. There were practicalities to discuss. That was all. Holger Munch flicked the cigarette out of the window and lit another one.

I don’t drink coffee, I don’t touch alcohol. Surely I’m allowed a sodding cigarette.

Holger Munch had been drunk only once, at the age of fourteen, on his father’s cherry brandy at their holiday cottage in Larvik, and he had never touched a drop of alcohol since.

The desire was just not there. He didn’t fancy it. It would never cross his mind to do anything which might impair his brain cells. Not in a million years. Now, smoking, on the other hand, and the occasional burger, that was something else again.

He pulled over at a Shell petrol station by Stav Gjestegård and ordered a bacon-burger meal deal, which he ate sitting on a bench overlooking Trondheim Fjord. If his colleagues had been asked to describe Holger Munch in three words, two of them were likely to be ‘nerd’. ‘Clever’ would possibly be the third, or ‘too clever for his own good’. But a nerd, definitely. A fat, amiable nerd who never touched alcohol, loved mathematics, classical music, crossword puzzles and chess. A little dull, perhaps, but an extremely talented investigator. And a fair boss. So what if he never joined his colleagues for a beer after work, or that he had not been on a date since his wife left him for a teacher from Hurum who had eight weeks’ annual holiday and never had to get up in the middle of the night without telling her where he was going. There was no one whose clear-up rate was as high as Holger Munch’s, everyone knew that. Everyone liked Holger Munch. And, even so, he had ended up back in Hønefoss.

I’m not demoting you, I’m reassigning you. The way I see it, you should count yourself lucky that you still have a job.

He had almost quit on the spot that day outside Mikkelson’s office in Grønland, but he had bit his tongue. What else would he do? Work as a security guard?

Holger Munch got back in the car and followed the E6 towards Trondheim. He lit a fresh cigarette and followed the ring road around the city, heading south. The rental car was equipped with a satnav, but he did not turn it on. He knew where he was going.

Mia Krüger.

He thought warmly about his former colleague just as his mobile rang again.

‘Munch speaking.’

‘Where the hell are you?’

It was an agitated Mikkelson, on the verge of a heart attack, as usual; how that man had survived ten years in the boss’s chair down at Grønland was a mystery to most people.

‘I’m in the car. Where the hell are you?’ Munch snapped back.

‘In the car where? Haven’t you got there yet?’

‘No, I haven’t got there yet. I’ve only just landed, I thought you knew that. What do you want?’

‘I just wanted to check that you’re sticking with the plan.’

‘I have the file here, and I intend to deliver it in person, if that’s what you mean.’ Munch sighed. ‘Was it really necessary to send me all the way up here just for this? How about a courier? Or we could have used the local police?’

‘You know exactly why you’re there,’ Mikkelson replied. ‘And this time I want you to do as you’ve been told.’

‘One,’ Munch said as he flicked the cigarette butt out of the window, ‘I owe you nothing. Two, I owe you nothing. Three, it’s your own fault you’re no longer using my brain for its intended purpose, so I suggest you shut up. Do you want to know the cases I’m working on these days? Do you, Mikkelson? Want to know what I’m working on?’

A brief silence followed at the other end. Munch chuckled contentedly to himself.

Mikkelson hated nothing more than having to ask for a favour. Munch knew that Mikkelson was fuming now, and he savoured the fact that his former boss was having to control himself rather than speak his mind.

‘Just do it.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Munch grinned and saluted in the car.

‘Drop the irony, Munch, and call me when you’ve got something.’

‘Will do. Oh, by the way, there was one thing Ö’

‘What?’ Mikkelson grunted.

‘If she’s in, then so am I. No more Hønefoss for me. And I want our old offices in Mariboesgate. We work away from Police Headquarters. And I want the same team as before.’

There was total silence before the reply came.

‘That’s completely out of the question. It’s never going to happen, Munch. It’s …’

Munch smiled and pressed the red button to end the call before Mikkelson had time to say anything else. He lit another cigarette, turned the radio on again and took the road leading to Orkanger.

Chapter 4

Mia Krüger had been dozing on the sofa under a blanket near the fireplace. She had been dreaming about Sigrid and woken up feeling as if her twin sister were still there. With her. Alive. That they were together again, like they always used to be. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Two peas in a pod, born two minutes apart, one blonde, the other dark; so different and yet so alike.

All Mia wanted to do was return to her dream, join Sigrid, but she made herself get up and go to the kitchen. Eat some breakfast. To keep the alcohol down. If she carried on like this, she would die prematurely, and that was completely out of the question.

The eighteenth of April.

Ten days left.

She had to hold out, last another ten days. Mia forced down two pieces of crispbread and considered drinking a glass of milk, but opted for water instead. Two glasses of water and two pills. From her trouser pocket. Didn’t matter which ones. One white and one pale blue today:

Sigrid Krüger

Sister, friend and daughter.

Born 11 November 1979. Died 18 April 2002.

Much loved. Deeply missed.

Mia Krüger returned to the sofa and stayed there until she felt the pills starting to kick in. Numb her. Form a membrane between her and the world. She needed one now. It was almost three weeks since she had last looked at herself, and she could put it off no longer. Time for a shower. The bathroom was on the first floor. She had avoided it for as long as possible, didn’t want to look at herself in the large mirror which the previous owner had put up right inside the door. She had been meaning to find a screwdriver. Remove the damn thing. She felt bad enough as it was, and did not need it confirmed, but she had not had the energy. No energy for anything. Just for the pills. And the alcohol. Liquid Valium in her veins, little smiles in her bloodstream, lovely protection against all the barbs that had been swimming around inside her for so long. She steeled herself and walked up the stairs. She opened the door to the bathroom and almost went into shock when she saw the figure in the mirror. It wasn’t her. It was someone else. Mia Krüger had always been slim, but now she looked emaciated. She had always been healthy. Always strong. Now there was practically nothing left of her. She pulled off her jumper and jeans and stood in only her underwear in front of the mirror. Her knickers were sagging. The flesh on her stomach and hips was all gone. Carefully, she ran a hand over her protruding ribs; she could feel them clearly, count them all. She made herself walk right up close to the mirror, caught a glimpse of her own eyes in the rusty, silver surface. People had always remarked on her blue eyes. ‘No one has eyes as Norwegian as yours, Mia,’ someone had said to her once, and she still remembered how proud she had been. ‘Norwegian eyes’: it had sounded so fine. At a time when she wanted to fit in, not be different. Sigrid had always been the prettier; perhaps that explained why it had felt so good? Sparkling blue eyes. Not much of that left now. They looked dead already. Devoid of life and lustre, red where they should be white. She reached down for her trousers, found two more pills in the pocket, stuck her mouth under the tap and swallowed them. Returned to the mirror and tried straightening up her back.