Holger Munch was in a foul mood as he sat behind the wheel of his black Audi, driving towards Bislett. He stopped for a red light at Ullevålsveien and watched a smiling young couple push a pram across the junction in front of him. He lit a cigarette and shook his head. How had this happened? That had been him not so long ago. Marianne and him. With Miriam in the pram. And why could he not get it out of his head, her getting married again? Surely he had better things to think about. A seventeen-year-old girl. Murdered and left naked in the woods. On a bed of feathers. A flower in her mouth. And he had sucked up to Mikkelson; it was quite possible he was mostly annoyed about that. But from the moment he had stepped inside the white tent in the forest and seen the girl lying there, he had known what he had to do. He needed Mia Krüger back. He had a great team, he did, the best investigators in the country, but there was no one like her.
A horn beeping behind him snapped him out of his reverie. The light was green, and the young couple had gone. Munch put the car in gear and turned off down towards Bislett Stadium. Getting married? What on earth was the point of that?
He had just parked the car and was about to get out when his mobile rang.
‘Munch?’
‘It’s Ludvig.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think we have identified her.’
‘Already?’
‘I think so.’
Munch had told Ludvig Grønlie and his new assistant, Ylva, to check the missing-persons lists.
‘Good work. So who is she?’
‘We still need to have it confirmed, but I’m fairly sure it’s her. Camilla Green. Reported missing three months ago. The description matches – height, eye colour, the tattoo – but something’s not quite right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is why it took some time,’ Grønlie continued.
Munch smiled to himself and lit a cigarette. Some time. It was less than two hours since he’d made the request. He felt almost guilty for insisting to Mikkelson that he must have Mia back. He was already in charge of the country’s very best investigators.
‘Go on?’ Munch said, getting out of the car.
‘Camilla Green,’ Grønlie continued, and it sounded as if he was reading aloud from his screen. ‘Born 13 April 1995. Green eyes. Shoulder-length, dark-blonde hair. 1.68 metres tall. Weighs about seventy kilos. Parents dead. Reported missing by Helene Eriksen, she’s the manager of a place called Hurumlandet Nurseries.’
‘Seventy kilos?’ Munch said, taking the case file from his car before locking it. ‘Then it can’t be her, can it? The girl we found was skinny, don’t forget—’
‘I know,’ Grønlie interrupted him. ‘But I’ve got a picture, and it’s definitely her. Camilla Green. Everything else matches. The tattoo and everything.’
‘OK, and when did you say she was reported missing?’
‘The nineteenth of July. But this is the strange thing, and it explains why it took some time to find her in the register.’
‘What is?’
‘The woman who reported her missing, Helene Eriksen, must have reported her – er, what’s the term, “not missing”? – only a few days later.’
‘You mean, she was found?’
Grønlie disappeared for a few seconds, as if he was checking his screen again.
‘No, not found. The report was merely withdrawn.’
‘But that makes no sense,’ Munch said, glancing up at Mia’s flat.
Both windows were dark. He had tried calling her, but she had not answered her phone, which was why he had made the decision to drive up to see her.
‘… but she isn’t picking up,’ Grønlie said.
‘Who?’
‘Helene Eriksen. There’s a number listed here, but she isn’t answering her phone.’
‘OK,’ Munch said, crossing the street. ‘Did you say Camilla’s parents were dead? Surely somebody must have been responsible for her? What else do we know about her?’
‘That’s all I’ve got for now,’ Grønlie replied. ‘Only this place, Hurumlandet Nurseries.’
‘Which is?’
Munch went up to the entrance and studied the array of doorbells, though he knew it was pointless; Mia would not want people to know where she lived. He took a few steps back and looked up at the windows again. Funny, really. They did not live all that far from each other – his flat in Theresesgate was only a few minutes away – and yet he had never visited Mia at home. Well, it was not funny; more sad, really. He chucked his cigarette stub on the ground, lit another one, and felt guilty again. Ever since Mikkelson had suspended her, they had met up only a few times. Brief, almost superficial meetings at Justisen. Mia had seemed distant, monosyllabic. No wonder, after everything she had been through. A few telephone calls. A few cups of tea. Perhaps he should have done more for her. Been a better boss. And friend. But Mia was like that. She valued her privacy, hated intrusion, and so he had left her alone.
‘We haven’t found out a great deal yet, but it looks like it’s a kind of home for troubled teenagers,’ Grønlie went on.
They have a website, but it’s a bit—’
‘1990s,’ Ylva piped up in the background.
‘Needs updating,’ Grønlie said.
‘But it is a gardening business?’
‘Yes,’ Grønlie said. ‘As far as we can gather. A place for young people who, well, have problems. They go there to work. That’s pretty much all I know for now, that’s all I’ve got.’
‘Great,’ Munch said. ‘Keep trying – what’s her name?’
‘Helene Eriksen.’
‘OK, keep trying until she picks up. And see what else you can find on Camilla Green.’
‘We’re already on it,’ Grønlie said.
‘Fine,’ Munch said, and rang off.
He tried Mia’s number again, but there was still no reply. He stood for a moment, wondering whether to try all the bells without names by them to see if he might chance upon the right person, but caught a lucky break when the door suddenly opened. A young woman in tight, colourful exercise clothes appeared, and Munch just had time to discard his cigarette and slip through the door before it closed again.
It was the second floor, this much he knew. They had walked home from Justisen once, and she had pointed it out.
That’s where I live. My new home.
She had been drunk and spoken sarcastically.
Home.
She had not sounded as if she had meant it. Munch was wheezing as he took the stairs up to the second floor. Fortunately, there were only two flats. One had a sign on the door: ‘Gunnar and Vibeke live here’. There was nothing on the other door.
Munch unbuttoned his duffel coat, pressed the doorbell twice and waited.