Homicide investigator Holger Munch was sitting in his car outside his former home in Røa, deeply regretting having agreed to come over. He had lived in the white house with his then wife, Marianne, until ten years ago, and he had not been inside since. The fat investigator lit a cigarette and rolled down the window of the car. He had had his annual health check a few days ago, and the doctor had recommended, yet again, that he cut down on fatty food and quit smoking, but the fifty-four-year-old police officer had absolutely no intention of doing so, especially not the latter. Holger Munch needed cigarettes in order to think, and thinking was what he enjoyed more than anything.
Holger Munch loved chess, crossword puzzles, maths conundrums – anything that stimulated his brain cells. He would often sit in front of his laptop, chatting to friends about chess games, or solving brainteasers. Just now he had received an email from his friend Juri, a professor from Minsk he had met online some years ago.
There is a metal pole in a lake. Half the pole is in the seabed. A third of it is under water. Eight metres of the pole protrudes above the water. What’s the total length of the pole? Best wishes, J.
Munch pondered the answer and was about to reply to the email when he was interrupted by his mobile ringing. He checked the display. Mikkelson. His boss at Oslo Police’s headquarters in Grønland. Munch let the mobile ring for a few seconds; he considered taking the call but ultimately decided to ignore it. He pressed the red button and returned the mobile to his pocket. Family time now. That was the mistake he had made a decade ago. He had not spent enough time with his family. He had worked round the clock and, even when he was at home, his mind had been on other things. Because of that he now found himself outside the house where Marianne now lived with another man.
Holger Munch scratched his beard and looked up in the rear-view mirror at the big, pink present with golden ribbons on the back seat. It was his granddaughter Marion’s birthday. The six-year-old apple of his eye. The real reason he had agreed to drive up to Røa, although he had sworn never to set foot in the house ever again. Munch took a deep drag on his cigarette and realized he was rubbing his finger where his wedding ring used to be. He had worn it for ten years after the break-up, unable to make himself take it off. Marianne. She had been the love of his life. He had imagined that they would always be together, and he had not gone on a single date since the divorce. He had had opportunities. It had never felt right. But he had done it now, removed his wedding ring. It was in the bathroom cabinet at home. He had not been able to throw it away.
Holger Munch heaved a sigh, took another drag on his cigarette and had another quick look at the pink present. He had probably gone overboard – again. His daughter, Miriam, constantly reproached him for spoiling little Marion, giving her anything she wanted. He had bought her a present which he knew Miriam would disapprove of, but it was something his granddaughter had set her heart on. A Barbie doll with a massive Barbie house and her own Barbie car. He could already hear the lecture. About spoilt children. About the female body and role models and unattainable ideals, but for Christ’s sake, it was only a doll. What harm could it do if it was what the little girl wanted?
His mobile rang again; Mikkelson for the second time, and again Munch pressed the red button. When his mobile rang a third time, he was tempted to pick up, because the caller was Mia Krüger. He was extremely fond of his younger colleague, yet still he did not take the call. He had to put his family first. He would call her back later. Perhaps they could have a cup of tea at Justisen sometime tonight? Talking to Mia after the family reunion would probably do him good. He had not spoken to her for ages, and he only now realized how much he missed her.
Six months ago he had gone to bring Mia back from an island off the coast of Trøndelag. She had isolated herself from the world, had no telephone; he had had to fly all the way up to Værnes, rent a car and get the local police to sail him to the island to find her. He had brought with him a case file. It had persuaded her to return with him to the capital.
Holger Munch prided himself on the strength of his team, but Mia Krüger was unique. He had hired her while she was at the police college, still in her early twenties, after a tip-off from the head, an old colleague. Holger Munch had met her in a café, an informal meeting away from police headquarters. Mia Krüger. A young woman in a white jumper and tight black trousers, with long, dark hair almost like an American Indian, with the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. Intelligent, self-assured and poised. He had been taken with her at once. She appeared to have guessed that he was there to test her, and yet she had answered his questions politely, with a glint in her eye: do you think I’m dumb or something?
Mia Krüger had lost her twin sister, Sigrid, many years ago. They had found her dead from a heroin overdose in a basement in Tøyen. Mia had blamed Sigrid’s boyfriend for her death and, during a routine search of a campervan by Lake Tryvann some years later, they had happened to bump into him, now with another victim by his side. Mia Krüger had killed the boyfriend with two shots to the chest, a crime of passion. Holger Munch had witnessed the shooting and knew that it could be justified as self-defence on Mia’s part, but, as a result of backing her, he had been transferred out of the city as punishment and Mia had been hospitalized. After two years in the sticks, Munch had finally been reinstated as head of the investigative unit in Mariboesgate in Oslo. Munch in turn had reinstated Mia. However, after that first case back on the job, Mikkelson still had concerns. He’d suspended Mia for a second time, with orders not to set foot inside the building until she had seen a psychologist who was willing to declare her fit for duty.
Munch rejected yet another call from his boss in Grønland and continued to look at himself in the mirror. What was he really doing here? It had been ten years.
You’re an idiot, Holger Munch. Mia’s not the only one who should be seeing a therapist.
Munch sighed again and got out of the car. It had grown colder outside. Summer was definitely over, autumn, too, it would appear, though October had barely begun. He pulled his duffel coat across his stomach, took out his mobile and replied to Juri: 48 metres ;) HM
He finished his cigarette, picked up the extravagant present from the back of the car, took two deep breaths and slowly made his way up the gravel path.