Munch opened the door and saw that Mia was already there, in the small room adjacent to the interview room. Anette Goli was leaning against the wall, her arms folded across her chest and a satisfied smile playing on her lips. Mia was sitting on a chair munching an apple, still wearing her leather jacket, and he could tell immediately from the look on his younger colleague’s face that she was entirely unimpressed.
‘What have we got?’ Munch said, hanging up his coat and taking a seat on the chair in front of the one-way mirror.
‘Jim Fuglesang,’ Anette Goli said. ‘Aged thirty-two. Lives in Røyken. Less than a forty-minute drive from Hurumlandet Nurseries. Turned up at reception just under an hour ago. Confessed to the murder of Camilla Green. He used to work for the post office. He’s on disability allowance now. I don’t know why, but I’ve asked Ludvig to look into it.’
‘Why is he wearing a bicycle helmet?’
‘He refuses to take it off,’ Anette Goli said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘It’s not him,’ Mia said, taking another bite from her apple.
‘Why not?’ Munch said.
‘Oh, come on, Holger. The papers reported the murder last night. How many times have we seen this before? People who want to confess? Don’t ask me why, but some people would do anything to get attention. I don’t understand what we’re doing here, frankly. Didn’t you get my text message?’
Munch got the distinct impression that Mia was extremely put out.
‘I’ve been conducting interviews all day,’ Munch said, by way of explanation.
‘The drawing at the riding school,’ Mia said, never taking her eyes off the man in the white bicycle helmet.
‘What drawing?’ Munch said.
Mia made no reply.
‘Anette?’ Munch said, turning around.
The blonde police lawyer shook her head; she seemed a little annoyed at the suggestion that she had dragged Mia and Munch in here for nothing. She was holding up a file, which she had not yet shown to Mia, because she had been waiting for Munch to arrive.
‘I’m not a complete idiot,’ Anette said, placing two photographs on the table in front of them.
‘Jim Fuglesang. Aged thirty-two. On benefits. Wears a white bicycle helmet that he refuses to take off. Turns up here. Confesses to the murder. And yes, I’m not completely wet behind the ears, I know about false confessions. I wouldn’t have called you if he hadn’t brought these along.’
She pointed to the two pictures she had just shown them. Unwillingly, Mia turned her attention to the photographs Anette had placed in front of them.
‘Bloody hell!’ Munch exclaimed.
‘Exactly,’ Anette Goli said triumphantly.
‘What the …?’ Mia said, turning to Anette.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Anette Goli said, folding her arms across her chest.
Two photographs. Blurred, but the subjects were quite clear. There could be no doubt.
‘I don’t understand this,’ Mia said.
‘I told you we had him.’ Anette Goli smiled.
‘OK,’ Munch said, getting up. ‘Let’s go and find out what this nutter has to say.’