Munch sat on a rock watching the sun go down in the horizon. He had always thought of Hønefoss as quiet; when he lay in his room at night, there was barely a sound, but it was nothing compared to this. This was true silence. And beauty. Munch could not remember when he’d last seen a view like this. He could understand why she had chosen this place. Such calm. And what clean air. He inhaled deeply through his nose. It really was unique. He looked at the clock on his phone. Two hours had passed. It was a long time, but she could have all the time in the world. After all, he wasn’t going anywhere. Perhaps he should just stay out here? Follow her example, throw away his cell phone? Ignore the world? Let go completely? No, there was Marion to think about; he could never abandon her. He didn’t care much about anyone else. But then he started to feel guilty. An image of his mother in her wheelchair on her way to her prayer meeting flashed in his mind. He hoped that it had gone well. That was supposed to be his job. Taking her to the chapel every Wednesday. He had no idea why she insisted on going. She had never been very religious in the past, not that it made any difference. The situation made Munch feel uncomfortable, but his mother was old enough to know her own mind.
“Holger?”
Munch’s train of thought was interrupted by Mia’s voice calling out from the house.
“Are you done?”
“I think so.”
Munch got up quickly, stretched to combat the stiffness, and walked briskly back toward the house.
“So what do you think?” he asked her.
“I think we need food,” Mia said. “I’ve heated some soup.”
Munch entered the living room and sat down on the spindle-back chair again. The photographs were no longer scattered across the table but were back inside the folder.
Mia appeared, said nothing, put a bowl of steaming-hot soup on the table in front of him. It was clear that she was distracted, he recognized that look of hers: she was lost in thought and did not want to be disturbed. He ate his soup without saying a word and let her finish hers before he coughed softly to rouse her.
“Pauline Olsen. That’s an old-fashioned name for a six-year-old girl,” Mia said.
“She was known as Line,” Munch said.
“Eh?”
“She was named after her maternal grandmother, but she was only ever called Line.”
Mia Krüger looked at him with an expression he could not quite fathom. She was still somewhere deep inside herself.
“Line Olsen,” Munch continued. “Aged six, due to start school this autumn. Found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random passerby. No signs of sexual assault. Killed with an overdose of methohexital. Backpack on her back. It was stuffed full of schoolbooks, not hers—as I said, she had yet to start school. Pencil case, ruler, all the books were wrapped with paper covers, no fingerprints. Every book is labeled with the name Toni J. W. Smith rather than the victim’s own, for some reason. Her clothes are clean, freshly ironed, none of them her own, according to her mother. Everything is new.”
“It’s a doll,” Mia said.
“Pardon?” Munch said.
A glassy-eyed Mia slowly poured herself a refill; she had fetched the cognac bottle from the kitchen while he’d been outside, and it was almost empty.
“The clothes belong to a doll,” Mia continued. “The whole outfit does. Where are they from?”
Munch shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I only know what it says in the report. I’m not investigating the case.”
“Mikkelson sent you?”
Munch nodded.
“There will be others,” Mia said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“There will be others. She’s just the first.”
“Are you sure?”
Mia gave him a look.
“Sorry,” Munch said.
“She has a number on the nail of her little finger,” Mia said.
Mia took a photograph from the folder. A close-up of the girl’s left hand. She placed it in front of Munch and pointed.
“Do you see? A number has been scraped into the nail of her little finger. It might look like just a scratch, but it isn’t. It’s the number one. There will be others.”
Munch stroked his beard. To him it looked like just a scratch, and it had been noted in the report as such, but he said nothing. “How many?” he said to prompt her.
“As many as the number of fingers perhaps.”
“Ten?”
“It’s hard to say. Could be.”
“So you’re sure? That there will be others, I mean?”
Mia rolled her eyes at him again and took another swig of her drink. “This is clinical. The killer took his time. Incidentally, I’m not sure that it is a man, or it could be a man, but he isn’t . . . well . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Normal. If it is a man, then he’s not normal.”
“You mean in terms of sexual inclination?”
“It doesn’t quite add up, and yet it does, if you know what I mean. Yes, it adds up, but not exactly, something doesn’t add up, and yet it does somehow.”
She had left him behind now. She was no longer in the room but back inside her own head. Munch let her continue without interrupting her.
“What is methohexital?”
Munch opened the folder and flicked through the crime-scene report before he found the answer. She had not read it, of course. Only looked at the photographs like she used to.
“It’s marketed under the brand name Brevital. A barbiturate derivative. It’s used by anesthesiologists.”
“An anesthetic,” Mia said, and disappeared back inside herself.
Munch was desperate for a cigarette, but he stayed put. He wouldn’t light up inside, nor would he leave her, not now.
“He didn’t want to hurt her,” she suddenly said.
“What do you mean?”
“The killer didn’t want to hurt her. He dressed her up, he washed her. Gave her an anesthetic. He didn’t want her to suffer. He liked her.”
“He liked her?”
Mia Krüger nodded softly.
“Then why did he hang her with a jump rope?”
“She was about to start school.”
“Why the backpack and the books?”
She looked at him as if he were a complete idiot. “Same reason.”
“Why does it say Toni J. W. Smith rather than Pauline Olsen on the books?”
“I don’t know.” Mia sighed. “That’s the bit that doesn’t add up. Everything else does, except for that, wouldn’t you agree?”
Munch made no reply.
“The embroidered label at the back of her dress. ‘M10:14.’ That adds up,” she continued.
“Mark 10:14. From the Bible? ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’?”
Munch had remembered this detail from the report, which was actually quite thorough, but they had overlooked the significance of the line on the nail.
Mia nodded. “But that’s not important. M10:14. He’s just messing with us. There’s something else that matters more.”
“More than the name on the books?”
“I don’t know,” Mia said.
“Mikkelson wants you back.”
“To work this case?”
“Just back.”
“No way. I’m not coming back.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not coming back!” she exploded. “Didn’t you hear me? I’m not going back.”
Munch had never seen her like this before. She was trembling; she seemed on the verge of tears. He got up and walked over to the sofa. Sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders. He drew her head toward his chest and stroked her hair.
“There, there, Mia. Let’s call it a day. Thank you so much.”
Mia made no reply; Holger could feel her skinny body quiver against him. She really was unwell. This was something new. He pulled her to standing and helped her up the stairs. Ushered her into the room, to the bed, and covered her with the duvet.
“You want me to stay the night? Sit here with you? Sleep downstairs on the sofa? Make you some breakfast? I could try to get that spaceship to work. Wake you with a cup of coffee?”
Mia Krüger said nothing. The pretty girl he was so fond of was lying almost lifeless under the duvet, unmoving. Holger Munch sat down on a chair next to the bed, and a few minutes later he heard her deep breathing enter a calmer tempo. She was asleep.
Mia? In this state?
He had seen her exhausted and run-down in the past, but never like this. This was completely different. He gazed at her tenderly, made sure that she would not be cold, and walked downstairs. He found the path leading to the jetty and took his phone from the pocket of his jacket.
“Mikkelson speaking?”
“It’s Munch.”
“Yes?”
“She’s not coming.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Damn,” he heard at length. “Did she say anything useful? Something we have missed?”
“There will be others.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I just said. There will be others. The girl has a number scratched into the nail of her little finger. Your people missed that.”
“Damn,” Mikkelson swore, then fell silent again.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Munch said eventually.
“You had better come back,” Mikkelson said.
“I’m staying here until tomorrow. She needs me.”
“That’s not what I meant. I want you to come back.”
“We’re reopening the unit?”
“Yes, you’ll report directly to me. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” Munch replied.
“Good,” Mikkelson said, and another silence followed.
“And no, Mia won’t be coming,” Munch said in answer to the question that was hanging in the air.
“Are you sure?”
“I guarantee you,” Munch said flatly. “Mariboesgate, the same offices?”
“It has already been taken care of,” Mikkelson told him. “The unit has been reopened unofficially. You can pick your crew when you return to Oslo.”
“Okay,” Munch said, and quickly hung up.
He could feel the joy rise in him, but he did not want Mikkelson to know it. He was going back where he belonged. To Oslo. The unit was up and running again. He’d gotten his old job back, and yet his joy was not complete. He had never seen Mia Krüger like this, so far gone, and he would not be bringing her back with him. And the thought of the little girl hanging from the tree continued to send shivers down the spine of the otherwise levelheaded investigator.
Munch looked up at the sky. The horizon was darkening now. The stars bathed the silence in a cold light. He tossed his cigarette into the sea and walked slowly back to the house.