Holger Munch was fed up with driving and decided to take a break. He pulled over and got out to stretch his legs. He did not have much farther to go. The man who would be taking him to the island in his boat could not take him there until after two o’clock for some reason—Munch hadn’t had the energy to ask why. He had spoken to the local police officer, who didn’t seem particularly bright. He wasn’t 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 afterward 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 another 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 when he’d taken a break from the music to listen to the news. He wondered if they’d 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’d been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen.
His cell had been ringing and beeping all the time he was in the car, but Holger had ignored it. He did not want to make calls or send text messages while driving. He’d attended too many accidents caused by just one second of distraction. Besides, none of it was urgent. And he savored 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 did not mind visiting his mother in the nursing home. He did not mind helping his daughter with the preparations for her wedding. And he certainly never minded hours spent with Marion, his granddaughter, who had just turned six, but even so, yes, at times it all got to be too much for him.
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 cell. 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. Shit, he had forgotten to call the nursing home. After all, today was a Wednesday. He really should have done it before he started driving. He found the number, got up, and straightened his legs.
“Høvikveien Nursing 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 caregivers to answer the phone, as they usually did.
Wow, Holger, new sweater? 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 favor.”
“Go on, then, ask away, Holger.” The woman on the telephone laughed.
They had been nodding acquaintances for some years. Karen was one of the aides at the home where his mother initially had refused to live but where she now appeared to have settled in.
“It’s Wednesday again.” Munch heaved a sigh.
“And you won’t be able to make it?”
“No, sadly not,” Munch replied. “I’m out of town.”
“I understand,” Karen said, chuckling softly. “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 movies?
He dismissed the idea just as an email pinged to announce its arrival on his cell. He’d been dead set against it, these newfangled phones 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 Yuri, a man from Belarus he’d met on the Net some years ago. Nerds the world over gathered on Math2.org’s message board. Yuri was a sixty-something-year-old professor from Minsk. Munch would not go as 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 brain teasers, 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? Y.
Munch lit another cigarette and pondered the question for a while before he found the answer. Ha, ha. He liked Yuri. He had actually considered going to visit him one day, and why not? He’d never been to Belarus, so why not meet up with people you had gotten to know on the Internet? He had made several acquaintances in this way: mrmichigan40 from the United States, Margrete_08 from Sweden, Birrrdman from South Africa. Chess and mathematics nerds but, more important, 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 traveled anywhere? He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the screen of his cell phone 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 on 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 absentmindedness. Ultimately there would be a price to pay, but now, and like this? She had been completely relaxed, as if she’d rehearsed her speech several times. They had met in a class. Stayed in touch ever since. They had developed feelings for each other. They had gotten together a few times, in secret, but she no longer wanted to live a dishonest life. In the end Munch 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 behavior. 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 and been 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 rented car were not enough.
Could you add a few thousand extra? We have decided to invite cousins. M.
The wedding. Of course, he texted, adding a smiley face and then deleting it. He saw the message go out while he 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 after his transfer back to Hønefoss.
He had let Marianne keep the house after the divorce. It 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’d bought a small apartment in Bislett, suitably near to them and suitably far from his work. He had kept the place after his transfer and was now renting a studio apartment on Ringveien, not far from Hønefoss Police Station. His belongings were still in cardboard boxes. He had not taken very much, 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 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 seen a case like this for a long time. No wonder they were sweating down at Grønland.
He picked up his cell and replied to Yuri’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 onto the main road, and continued his journey east to Hitra.