Mia was sitting in Justisen toying with the idea of ordering a beer, but she ended up getting a Farris. Some minutes later Holger arrived and collapsed breathlessly on the chair opposite her.
“What happened?” Mia asked.
“The killer contacted Aftenposten some days ago. He called a journalist named Mikkel Wold. Distorted voice. Gave information about Karoline.”
“Why didn’t they come to us?”
“Because they’re a bunch of selfish bastards who only care about selling newspapers.” Munch was visibly agitated.
“So now what?”
“I’m not sure,” he fumed. “Their lawyer kept stressing that they had done nothing wrong and that we couldn’t charge them with anything.”
“Surely we can bring them in, if nothing else?” Mia said.
“Mikkelson said he would think about it but that my interviewing them would probably suffice.”
“Seriously?”
“Damn politicians,” Munch snarled. “Always feathering their own nests.”
He ordered a prawn sandwich and a cola and took off his jacket.
“So what did you get?” Mia asked.
“A verbal statement. They’ll send us a written one tomorrow.”
“Anything useful?”
“Not really, no,” Munch said, shaking his head in despair. “What did Bache say?”
“Bingo,” Mia said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think you are involved.”
Munch raised his eyebrows. “I heard you. What do you mean by it?”
“I think this is about you.”
Munch got his food and took a sip of his cola.
“It’s a bit difficult to explain. Like I said, I have this hunch,” Mia continued.
“Try me,” Munch said.
“Okay,” she said. “The killer points us to Hønefoss and the missing baby. Who was responsible for that investigation?”
“I was,” Munch said.
“Correct.”
“Hamlet,” Mia said. “What’s Hamlet about?”
“True love?” Munch ventured.
“That’s Romeo and Juliet. Try again, Holger—Hamlet?”
“You were the one who studied literature, Mia.”
“Three lectures in two terms and no exam doesn’t make me an expert,” Mia said.
“I don’t know Shakespeare very well.” Munch sighed.
“Okay, never mind. Revenge. Hamlet is about revenge. There’s more to it than that, obviously, but that’s the main theme.”
“Right. Baby disappears. I’m in charge of the investigation. The Swede hangs himself. We shelve the case. The baby is still missing. Presumed dead. The killer tells us the Swede didn’t do it.”
“Toni J. W. Smith.”
“Exactly, and points us to Hamlet. So this is about revenge?”
“Something like that.”
“But now what? Okay, I can follow you some of the way. The baby is missing, yes. I’m responsible, yes. Hamlet, revenge, yes. But why kill ten girls? What does that have to do with me? Surely you can hear it sounds a bit far-fetched, Mia.”
Mia drank her mineral water and thought about it. “Benjamin Bache’s great-grandmother.”
“Veronica Bache, what about her?”
“She lived at the same nursing home as your mother. What do you make of that?”
Munch’s eyes widened. “Did she? How do you know that?”
“I discovered it earlier today. Ludvig is cross-referencing all staff members, residents, and names associated with the nursing home with the Hønefoss case as we speak. I don’t think Benjamin Bache is our guy, but we need to remember that a cell phone registered to Veronica Bache was used to send those messages. By someone at the nursing home? Or are we being played? I have to admit that I’m not clear about that right now. I’ve asked Ludvig to look into it.”
“And?”
“Nothing yet. And oh, the nursing home isn’t the only link between your mother and Veronica Bache.”
“What more is there?”
“A church.”
“Bache was a member of it?”
“More than that. She was going to leave it all her money.”
“What?”
“Do you see it now? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Good job, Mia,” Munch muttered. “This is good.”
He became lost in his own world. Tried to process the information she’d given him.
“Why?” Mia said.
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t know that yet, but there are too many coincidences, wouldn’t you say? What is the common denominator here, Munch?”
“The church.”
“Precisely.”
“But—” Munch frowned.
“I know, I don’t really understand it either. It’s too messy. I almost think that’s the point, that we’re supposed to get lost. A million dead ends. I know that it sounds weird, but he’s doing a good job. The killer, I mean. I would have done it the same way.”
Munch sent her a sideways glance.
“You know what I mean. If I were on the other side. Symbols everywhere, changing the MO—we’re running around in circles. We’re sent this way, then that way. It’s how you play tennis, isn’t it?”
“Tennis?”
“The player who serves always has the advantage. As long as you keep pressing your opponent so hard that all he can do is return the ball, you’re in the driver’s seat. Unless you make a mistake, you’ll win.”
“So the killer is serving?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I get the comparison,” Munch said. “How do you rob a bank without getting noticed?”
“You blow up the building across the street. I know.” Mia sighed.
“Sorry.” Munch smiled and rubbed his eyes. “It’s been a long week. I lost my temper with my lawyer today. Why won’t people ever take responsibility for their own actions? So where do we go with this?”
“That was what I wanted to ask you about.”
“The church?”
“That goes without saying.”
“You and me tomorrow morning?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is Gabriel still at the office?”
“I think so.”
“Send him a text. Ask him to check up on the church so we’re prepared when we get there. I can’t remember what they call themselves, but the address is on Bogerudveien in Bøler.”
“Okay,” Mia said, taking out her phone.
“By the way,” Munch said, lighting a fresh cigarette with his current one. “What did you say just now?”
“About tennis?”
“Yes, that if you’re serving, then you’ll win.”
“Unless you make a mistake . . .”
They both fell silent and looked at each other.
“It’s a nice idea, isn’t it?” Munch said.
“Definitely.” Mia nodded.
“Putting pressure on the killer,” Munch said.
“I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“You do that. Meanwhile I’ll put together a list of the sons of bitches who want my money.”
Munch got up, stubbed out his cigarette, and left.
Mia again considered having a beer, but she willed herself to order another Farris instead. She took out her pen and her papers, which she spread across the table as she usually did when she wanted to get her thinking in order. In the past she had seen everything so clearly and worked much faster; at her peak all she had to do was close her eyes and everything would play out in her head, but that was a long time ago. The Tryvann incident. The months on Hitra. It was as if her eyes were veiled. A kind of fog clouded her brain cells. She’d been told to rest. Plenty of rest for a long time. Not to subject herself to any kind of pressure. Her response had been to drug herself. Almost to the point of death. And now she was paying the price. She started making notes on the sheets in front of her. Trying to get the pen to do the work. Impose some kind of order on the chaos. Thinking was almost painful. Two girls were dead. Two girls were missing. It was her responsibility. Munch. Munch was definitely involved somehow. She was sure of it. Or was she? Something that had been so easy for her a few years ago now seemed impossible. She should never have agreed to leave the island. She should have stuck with her plan.
Come to me, Mia, come.
She wrote down the names at the top of the sheet again. Pauline. Johanne. Karoline. Andrea. Six years old. About to start school this autumn. Mark 10:14. Suffer the little children to come unto me. I’m traveling alone. Jump rope. From the trees. The forest. Clean clothes. Freshly washed bodies. Shakespeare. Hamlet. Satchels. Schoolbooks. It was coming now. Toni J. W. Smith. Hønefoss. The baby, who was never found. I’m traveling alone.
Come, Pauline, come.
Come, Johanne, come.
Come, Karoline, come.
Come, Andrea, come.
Mia was roused from her reverie when the waitress suddenly appeared next to her. Damn. She’d been on her way. To the place where she had to go. A place she hadn’t visited for a long time.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Yes, get me a beer, please,” Mia muttered irritably. “And a Ratzeputz. Make that two Ratzeputzes.”
She needed help to get back to the place where she needed to be.